By Candlelight
by lya404
Summary: Blaine runs away from an abusive Dom into the hands of a rather unusual household. There, he will find comfort, safety, and protection. But will he find peace? Warnings for: sub!Blaine, Dom!Kurt, AU, D/s, past abuse, suicidal thoughts. Angst heavy toward the front, but will probably become cotton-candy fluff with time.
1. Chapter 1

Hello! I feel like I should preface this story is a short introduction. This is a D/s AU - meaning that the verse will be composed of Dom, sub, and switch characters that interact in relationships that are defined by domination and submission. It is not going to be particularly (or at all) sexual - and when we get to the smut, I will warn for it in those chapters ahead of time. Apart from that, the story is angsty, possibly triggery, so tread with caution. And as always, your input is invaluable. I write to an audience and it helps to know what throws you off and what lets you sink into this world.

Oh, and I obviously don't own Glee.

* * *

Mrs. Wallace did not tolerate nonsense. She squinted down 56th St at #127 and tugged a little harder on Missy's leash. It really was despicable, a house of subs, Doms, and switches living together and without claims like one big…orgy! Outrageous! And on such a respectable street! Why, Mrs. Bing lived just three doors down, and Mrs. Wallace herself lived just around the corner to these heathens. Her agitation grew as she approached the house, Missy trailing behind her and occasionally pausing to sniff her favorite flowers. Number 127 stood out from the rest of the houses on the street in many ways. For one, it was one of the only houses to have its lights glow bright well into the night. Even now, as the clocks ticked close to 2am, both stories of the traditional residence cast a haze of light across the sidewalk and into the trees. If she hadn't known that the house was full of unclaimed sub and Doms, she might have romanticized the scene – something about the view reminded Mrs. Wallace of a candle, flickering warmth and light through inhospitable darkness, welcoming and inviting. As she neared the steps leading to their front-door, Mrs. Wallace stopped. There really was something quite beautiful about it. Before she could articulate exactly what that was, one of the rooms went dark, startling her out of her thoughts.

Oh! Powerless to stop it, Mrs. Wallace was overcome with certainty that the occupants of the darkened room were stripping each other of their clothes, sliding on to their knees, submitting and dominating one another with fluid freedom of youth and independence. Shaking the thought from her greying head, Mrs. Wallace put a deep grimace into her face and sneered down at her Pet, "No respect. No respect for the Law. Well, let them rot Unclaimed." Missy looked up at her Mistress and gratefully tongued at her gag; she wouldn't have known what to say anyways.

* * *

However vividly Mrs. Wallace imagined the wild, unrestricted orgy taking place in Number 127, nothing of the sort could be observed inside. The house was quiet, a sleepy calm lulling its residence and tempting them to bed. Minutes ago, Laura Beck turned off the light in the library, having finally admitted defeat in her battle with Chapter 15 of her endocrinology textbook. With a yawn and a stretch, she closed the door behind her and let the thoughts of her upcoming exam stay locked in the dark room. With a slight stumble from hours of sitting over a desk, Laura entered the kitchen to find Lea and Mark still roaming about.

"Hey," Laura greeted her housemates before diving into the fridge for milk, "why are you still up?"

Mark hummed around a large bite of his mid-night snack and pointed to a stack of papers to his left, "Fuggen uddgads."

Laura glanced to Lea, standing over the over and waiting for the kettle to boil. "Fucking undergrads." She translated Mark's mooing. "Mark has conveniently chosen to forget that mere eight months ago, he was a fucking undergrad himself."

"Yeah, well, my papers weren't shit," Mark finally swallowed his bite. "I have to finish grading these by 4pm, and every paper that talks about the Law as God's will to protect all subs is driving me closer to the edge of insanity."

Whatever he was going to say next was interrupted by the shrill whistle of the boiling kettle. Lea quickly set it onto a cool burned and fixed the steaming pot with three tablespoons of her favorite Earl Grey blend. Laura watched as she poured water into the steaming pot, entranced and comforted by the Domme's confident control over every gesture. Laura had only lived in the house for two months, and frequently found herself nervous and skittish around her housemates. But not Lea, never around Lea. Something about her radiated control, strength…domination.

"You want a cup?" Lea asked, setting down her own extra-large mug on the counter.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks." Mark mumbled into his hands as he ran them over his face in tired frustration.

Laura was ready to shuffle out of the room when Mark's voice stopped her, "Bring me the milk."

Ringing. Shrill ringing deafened her ears. The command vibrated through her body, quickening her heart and overwhelming her senses.

She shuddered and her hand instantaneously reached out to the carton she had just returned to the fridge.

"No! Shit, stop!"

Released from the command, Laura dared to look back up at Mark, anxious and tense. It was never comfortable for a sub to stand in a room with an agitated Dom. The room felt smaller, dense and heavy, brimming with nervous energy as Mark took a moment to suppress his domination and relax.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that." Mark said, looking straight at her.

His apology seemed to release Mark of his struggle. Standing up he walked over to Laura with slow measured steps, sure to give her plenty of time to step back.

"I'm really sorry. I lost control, and that's not OK. I don't dominate my friends."

Laura nodded and glanced at Lea – the Domme projected such calm, Laura couldn't help but relax under her gentle gaze. "Yeah Mark, I know. You're just stressed. Get some rest."

With a brief, forgiving hug and a goodbye, Laura left the warm glow of the kitchen in favor of the cool darkness of her bed.

* * *

"That can't happen. Whatever's going on – fix it."

It was hard. Remaining Unclaimed for so long was a struggle; Lea knew that as well as anybody. The domination, it bubbled in your veins itching to break free. When Lea had to explain what it was like to be an Unclaimed Dom, she always said, "If you picture the world as a puzzle, being a Dom is seeing the solution. Being an Unclaimed Dom is like seeing the solution and having no right to touch the puzzle pieces." The temptation, to take care of a sub, to bring them peace and certainty and guidance; it was strong. Sometimes, it overwhelmed even the strongest Dom.

"I know. It's nothing. I'm just tired." Mark made a show of warming his hands on his cup of tea.

Taking pity on the exhausted Dom, Lea chose to let it go, "We should all get some rest. I'm heading up, want me to turn off the lights?"

She saw Mark looking back over his stack of papers and stopped him with a hand on his arm, "Don't. Don't even think about it. You need sleep, and those papers will just have to wait."

"You're right." Mark nodded and huffed out a sigh, "You always are. But go on up, I'll follow in a minute. I think I just need some air."

For a breath, Mark felt her heavy gaze calculating him. He knew that she was worried; losing control like that, giving an order, dominating a friend – it wasn't a good sign. And Mark knew it. He had known for days that he was losing control, the stress making his weak hold over the domination all the more frayed. Sometimes he wondered whether he should start going to those clubs; however illegal and just plain wrong, they were a space to dominate, to be himself. Maybe, mistakes like this one, with Laura, could be avoided if he could dominate a faceless sub once in a blue moon.

Mark risked glancing up into Lea's eyes, hoping to see whether or not she caught the direction of his thoughts. But he could read nothing in her gaze; he knew from experience that it didn't mean she had read nothing in his.

"Alright." Grabbing a hold of her tea, Lea bid Mark one last goodbye before heading to her bedroom. He watched her progress with every dimmed light until her footsteps sounded on the steps.

Rubbing tension out of his eyes, Mark headed for the porch. Yes, that's just what he needed – some fresh air to cool his thoughts and a couple hours of sleep to clear his mind. The patio door swooshed as he tugged it, breaking the barrier between the warmth of the house and the breeze of the night. A wall of cold air hit Mark's face, making him feel feverish in comparison. Perhaps he was. Could he be getting sick? He wished that could explain his lack of control, but no, he'd felt this coming on for weeks. He knew the cycle well enough by now to know the signs; as an Unclaimed Dom, his domination would grow and fester, aimless and unused. He would grow tired, restless, weak, as the domination grew stronger and drained him dry, until one day, he'd find his second breath – the domination would fall back, collapse without a sub to act as target for its power. Sometimes, he wondered whether the domination could dominate itself, whether he could force it back from the forefront of his mind. But those were fevered thoughts of an exhausted mind.

Mark forced a deep, cold breath into his lungs, feeling the icy air freeze in his lungs. It was much colder than he'd thought. With a shiver and one last look into the night, he turned towards the door…

Something. There was something there. A shape, under the porch. Mark squinted, trying to make it out between the railings. The huddled mass shivered and he knew. It was a person.

Taken aback and driven forward, Mark took measured steps down the steps and only to the cold, dew-covered ground. As he approached, he saw the boy (for it was a boy, unruly, uncut hair curling in thick locks) tremble and pull tighter on a worn piece of cloth, so thin Mark could see the blue tinge of his skin right through it.

"Hello?" He called out.

No response.

The ground crackled with his steps until he came close enough to squat next to the boy. Even in the darkness, he saw the dark blue purpling of his skin around his wrists and ankles – this was a sub. A runaway.

"Hello?" He tried again. The boy convulsed, but made no indication that his mind was present. Gently, slowly, Mark raised his hand and let his palm guide the boy's face in his direction.

Pale. Deathly. Blue. The boy's face was gaunt; cheeks hallowed out and bone cutting his skin into flat planes. His lips were peeling and his eyes were shut. The only color on his face was a dark bruise. Without a thought, Mark wrapped his hands around his back and set his legs into the crook of his elbows. Lifting him, Mark knew this boy was close to death – if life weighed anything at all, it had already left him.

* * *

Cradling the frozen, quiver mass of bones into his chest, Mark rushed into the house. The boy's head lolled against his shoulder, strong tremors gosling his limbs. Underneath the cloth, the grime, the frostbite and the bruises, there was a boy, with muscles, nerves, and veins that pumped his blood. This was a human. No matter how little of him was left.

Sliding past the patio door, Mark toed it shut. There. That world, the world in which this boy had to survive, had suffered and had hurt was closed behind them. Mark hoped the thought would bring him some relief, but in that moment, a strong spasm nearly knocked the boy out of his arms. Fuck. Mark brought his arm to curve around his side, trying to protect the boy's head from colliding with the doorway corner as he shuffled further into the house.

Glancing to his right, where Laura and James were probably already tucked in bed, Mark nearly stumbled from the overwhelming sense of wrongness. How is it possible they were asleep? Was this boy's suffering not enough to wake them? Has nothing changed, has nothing shifted from bringing him into the house that never felt such pain?

He swayed. His mind grew fuzzy and his shoulders sagged as drums, drumming, thumping drums vibrated in his ears.

Thump.

Thump. Thump.

He blinked against a splotch of light and braced against a heavy, solid presence that leaned into his side.

It was the wall. Blinking against the fog of panic and hyperventilation, Mark struggled to gulp oxygen into his lungs and push the drumming of his heart out of his ears. Alright. He was alright. Now move your feet. One, then the other. Into the living room. Deep breaths. It was so easy to believe this was a dream, to let it pull him under. But the boy's sharp, icy edges cut through the haze.

Setting the boy gently on the couch, Mark shivered empathetically as the kid shook. Now on the couch, the boy looked smaller, thinner, paler than before, or maybe it was the couch that looked more plush, more thick than Mark had ever seen before. Hovering, hesitant, unsure, Mark couldn't help but think "Why me?" – could anybody else have found him? Would someone else just tell him what to do!

Lea.

Yes! Yes, she would know! Gratefully, Mark released the breath that sat hitched in his chest. Spinning in the direction of the stairs, Mark rushed out of the room for reinforcements. Rounding the corner, he threw on the switch and bathed the hall in light. Before his foot touched the first step, Mark heard a groan. A gasp. A thud.

He turned back in the direction of the boy until a pair of fevered honey eyes arrested him. The boy was up.

* * *

Thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

Stock-still, Mark took in the boy's appearance. It was so wrong. Legs shaking in excretion, pitched forward, crouched, the boy looked wild. His eyes, now open and more clear, were full of terror. They glimmered with crazed fear, nose flared and fingers splayed like claws. Unsteady on his feet, the boy couldn't quite straighten, deep indigo bruises on his knees suggesting the length of time he's spent in a submissive crawl. Mark never felt so threatened. Before him was a human pushed to the edge – he was an animal.

Throwing up his hands and backing down, Mark tried to catch his eye.

"OK…it's all OK."

The sound of his voice broke the sub's paralysis. His eyes darted across the unfamiliar space until they landed on the door across the stairs. One second, compressed, pulled tight, until he sprinted, energy exploding from his legs. One last break, last break for freedom.

"NO! Stop!"

Mark caught him by the shoulder, two bodies falling to the ground. He tried to flip them, worried of his weigh crushing the boy's bones, but the kid fought. Weak muscles flayed and spasmed, sending sharp elbows into Mark's chest. Conscious of the boy's many wounds, Mark couldn't overpower him, not without causing pain, but he couldn't let him run. Not into the cold! Not on his own!

"Wait, stop! Just stop!" commands should freeze him – no sub so weak could push past domination. But the kid didn't even pause. He wiggled, squirming against Mark's chest, kicking out and scratching against Mark's arms, bucking his body to overcome Mark's hold. A screech, a piercing, jagged, jarring screech rang through the house. The boy's voice rose and pierced the air, his vocal chords ripping with one last breath of freedom.

James's door jumped against the wall as he flew through the hall toward the sound. Thumping footsteps echoed across the house as its residence rushed to someone's rescue. James arrived first; Mark was pinned under a stranger's weight, arms wound loosely across his body. Protective instinct pushed James into the fray before he even saw the bruises. His hand seized 'round the stranger's wrist, twisting his arm across his back. The boy bucked back, throwing his weight into a turn and catching James's shoulder in a bite.

"Shit!" James hissed and slammed the kid's head into the floor, pressing him hard into the ground and settling his weight across his shaking torso. Deep, guttural sobs shook the boy's frame as he continued fighting the restraint.

"Unhand him!"

All motion stopped. Time froze. The hall grew quiet. Her domination held them.

Slowly, like through molasses, their holds grew slack, their bodies melted. Lea's command echoed across the hall until James lifted off the boy and sagged against the doorframe. She stepped down onto the floor, her body tense, alert, and buzzing. Better than chains and ropes, her presence bound them.

Off to her side, Lea took note of Jordan holding onto Laura's arm as the sub trembled. They met her gaze for a brief moment until a sob brought their eyes back onto the boy.

During his battle, his cloth got twisted. Now it lay uselessly against his thigh, uncovering the patchwork of scars, burns, bruises, welts and knife-marks that wrapped his body in layers of abuse. Under the layer of thick dirt and frostbite, his skin glowed red. Swinging his arm under his chest, the boy pushed up and turned to look upon his captors. Thick, matted curls obscured his sight, but nothing could obscure the pain in his dark eyes.

Crouched on the floor, he looked so lost. But not defeated. When Lea took one more step, he pushed onto his knees and pushed off.

But he was cornered. The room off to his side had no other doors, and so he crawled into the nearest corner, curled up and wept.

* * *

It hurt. The numbness hurt. This was the end.

Blaine hugged his knees closer to his chest and sobbed, lungs burning and throat closing against the hitching breaths. He was so close! He tasted freedom; he nearly died. Tonight, as he sat curled under the porch, he knew the night was cold enough to take him. He'd said goodbye, had let his eyes droop closed to what he hoped were his heart's last heartbeats. But now…

Now his heart drummed, still weak and random, but it beat. This was his body's worst betrayal – he could have died, but now he lived.

Which meant he hurt.

That, _that_ was his existence. Pain. Lashes to his back and slow, deep burns into his skin. The throbbing, blinding pain of long starvation. His body ached, his mind was fuzzy; pain made the world hazy and the hurt sharp. So close! So close to freedom. If only he had died. Now, he was going back.

The Law was clear. No runaways.

* * *

Curled tight and trembling, the boy looked…beautiful. Complete. So strong, so willful – a swell of pride rode through Lea's heart. Taking slow steps towards the boy, she felt a smile tug on her lips. With one deep breath, she reached out to the domination purring under her skin. Completely present and aware, she felt the restlessness behind her, Doms and switches processing the presence of a hurt sub while Laura looked on in helpless compassion. But in her own body, there was deep peace. Already, looking at the boy, she saw _him _(healed, rested, fed and clothed) – he wasn't this, a beaten sub, but something bigger, fuller and all he needed was a little time.

That, she could give him.

"Ok," she broke the silence. "I need some blankets. Could someone put the kettle back on the stove? And please reheat the soup from dinner. Mark, bring the electric heater from downstairs. Laura, everything's gonna be ok, alright?"

With a glance behind her, Lea set them all in motion – Jordan was the first to break ranks and rush into the kitchen while Mark rushed to the basement stairs.

"I'll gather blankets" said Laura before turning towards the bedrooms.

With cautious movements, Lea pulled the thick, alpaca throw into her hands without taking her eyes off the whimpering boy. His sobs died down (she suspected he had run out of breath) and his body loosened; delirium from dehydration and stupor from hypothermia were setting in. Stopping several feet from the boy, Lea fell to her knees and reached out a hand, keeping her body low to the ground.

"Sweetheart?" she tried, but the boy was now too weak to respond. His body collapsed against the wall, legs flopping to the ground as his head rolled onto his shoulder. In one quick movement, Lea was at his side, pressing his frozen body against her and pulling him into her lap. Once the blanket was secure around him, she settled him in her arms.

"He needs a hospital." Mark declared as he arrived with the electric heater. Plugging into the nearest socket to Lea and the boy, he turned to James "We can't do this on our own. He needs professional help."

"But we can't," James sat heavily onto the couch, "If we take him to the hospital, they'll know – he isn't ours."

"Maybe they won't check," Laura offered as she settled several thick down-comforters next to Lea's charge. She raised her hand and gently ran it across the boy's bruised cheek. He whimpered into the touch and nuzzled deeper into Lea's arms. "What does he need?"

"Fluids. That's the big one." James started, "And we can't do that if he is not conscious enough to drink. We could drown him if we try and his muscles are not strong enough to swallow."

The heater rumbled from long disuse as Mark adjusted its settings, "Maybe if we warm him up, he will come to. I could run a bath."

"That would be great. And yes, we need to bring his temperature up – actually, could you bring me the first aid kit? Or just the thermometer and the blood pressure cuff?" Lea asked while trying to rearrange the blankets so the wool wouldn't irritate the boy's skin. "So, yes, we need to warm him up, but Mark is right, it won't be enough."

James started to protest, but she pressed on, "That doesn't mean we can take him to the hospital. A beaten, abused sub arrives in the ER at three in the morning with an entourage of Unclaimed Doms, they will definitely check his registration. We can't take that risk. Right now, we have no idea what happened or who did this, but at the very least we know that, while he's here, it can't happen again."

"That doesn't resolve the problem," James said. "How do we feed him? How do we give him meds? Or even water?"

"Why are we so sure that it can't wait? Let him sleep it off under a stack of blankets and we can feed him then." Mark thrust the blood pressure cuff at Lea's outstretched arm and turned to face off James, "And could you stop? The Negative Nancy that thinks everyone else is dumb is not that helpful. We get it! No hospitals, no meds, no fluids. This kid is dying! So unless you have something to say that would help solve that, shut up."

James's response was cut off but the buzzing of the inflating pressure cuff. With Laura's help, Lea had tugged onto his arm and placed the thermos under his tongue. As she read the reading, she shook her head, "No, it can't wait. His heart rate is at 32 and his BP is so low, I can barely pick up a pulse. We are risking heart damage or clots if we don't do something."

"Santana." It was the first word Jordan had said since their surprise visitor appeared in the hall. "We can call Santana."

"Your ex, Santana?" Mark turned toward the Switch. "We said this kid needs fluids, not an attitude."

But Jordan wasn't deterred, "Yes, Santana. She works shift at Swedish Medical – she could bring couple of IVs and some bags of that water-that's-not-water, maybe even some meds. And she could probably tell us what to do. Which, I don't know 'bout you, but it would be nice. Have you ever brought someone back from the brink of death?"

James looked back towards Lea for the decision, "So, are we calling San?"

"Will she call the cops? Jordan, if she tells anybody…"

"She won't." without hesitation, Jordan turned in the direction of her room. "I'm calling – just give me a list of things San needs to bring."

* * *

Updates are posted on a more regular basis on GKM, but they are a little bit more polished when I post them here. Still, I am flying without a beta, so if there are errors, feel free to point them out. Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

Hi, again! Thank you to everyone who has left a review or decided to follow this story. Hope you are satisfied by this update, more is coming soon. And Blaine will be conscious in the next chapter, which will be a nice change :)

* * *

It was rapidly approaching 5am when Santana Lopez backed her car into the only remaining parking spot on 56th St (right across from a fire hydrant). The air buzzed with the low bass of her radio until she cut the engine and popped the driver's side door.

An involuntary shiver rushed down her left side as the crisp chill of the November night crawled up her leg. What the hell was she doing here? It was the middle of the night, no, fuck that – it was the middle of the morning, and she had a car full of stolen medical supplies. And it wasn't even the good stuff!

Dumping IV bags of fluid and glucose solution into her emergency overnight bag, Santana swung a scarf tight around her neck and pulled her coat across her chest. Her annoyed huff instantaneously condensed into frozen mist, deepening both her annoyance and her self-pity. Fucking friends. If it weren't for her being such a damn good friend, she'd be in bed right now. A warm, soft bed with beautiful, sleepy Brittney bound to the headboard and wrapped around her side.

Instead, she was in the middle of an empty street, a deep scowl on her face and a bag full of reasons to start looking for a new job. Whatever Jordan needed this for better be good.

Crossing the street, Santana glanced up at Number 127. Every window burst with light. She hurried up the steps, her heels clicking on the baseboards.

* * *

It had taken some effort to carry the boy into the upstairs bathroom; James kept tripping on the trails of blankets wrapping his body. But it was the only bath in the house and they needed to warm him up. Mark and Laura were downstairs, research hypothermia and frostbite while Jordan took to making rounds of coffee.

"You ready for this?" James asked while Lea tested the temperature of the water.

"What?" glancing behind her, Lea fiddled with the faucet. "Can't hear you. Mark! MARK!"

Ducking out of the bathroom, she rounded the railing and yelled down the stairs, "What temperature is it supposed to be?"

"What?" Mark shot back.

"The water. What temperature?"

He glanced down at his laptop and changed tabs to find the right reference. "Ok, the water can't be too hot. Max temp is….105 degrees. And keep his legs and arms out of the tub."

"Why? What are we trying to do?" Lea turned toward the bathroom to readjust the temperature settings.

"Prevent cardiac arrest." Mark climbed the stairs and continued reading. "Apparently, warming extremities can cause shock, and extreme heat can cause arrhythmia. But we can't warm him up with a heating blanket or a heater, cause direct heat will burn his skin."

"Wait," James interrupted, "so we gotta warm him up, but we can't use heaters, and we gotta use the water, but it could cause a heart attack? And what about his legs and arms? What, are we amputating those later?"

"They will warm up on their own as we warm the blood pumping to them." Lea left the "hopefully" out of her answer.

"Actually, that could be a problem." Laura squeezed into the bathroom, her laptop in tow. "He could get after-drop. It's when the cold blood from his extremities returns to his torso. To his heart. And since his heart is already weak, the cold blood could disrupt its electrical impulses, cause a short-circuit."

"How to we stop that from happening?" Mark voiced the question on all of their minds.

"We don't." Her voice soft and helpless, Laura glanced back to the boy propped on James's lap. "According to this paper, you can't tell when an after-drop will occur. They recommend to begin rewarming as quickly as possible and to avoid reheating the extremities until the core is stable. But since we don't have the tools to know when his core temperature stabilizes…"

They were in way over their heads.

"Water's ready." Lea announced moving towards the bundle of blankets.

James stopped her. "Didn't you hear her? We could send him into cardiac arrest."

"Yes, I know." She sat back on her heels and looked up at her friends. "Nothing's changed. We have to move forward. This kid is sick. He's dying. He needs fluids, and glucose, and god knows what else. But we know for a fact that he needs to get warm blood circulating again. That's all we can do right now."

"But we risk…" James starts, but Lea doesn't let him finish.

"That's a probability. His death, should we do nothing, is a certainty. Now help me get him out of these blankets."

Without layers of wool and fleece wrapping his body, his skin looked shredded. Mark led Laura out at the first sight of his bruises. Lea worked quickly and gently, trying to avoid the most aggravated wounds, but when it came time to remove the final piece of cloth, the one he'd been found with, she had to slow down. The fabric was bonded to his skin, glued into a deep cut on his thigh by drying blood. Peeling it off, Lea prayed she would never meet the man who did this, because if she would, she'd kill him.

Once the boy was in the tub, the water quickly turned brown. It lapped at his collarbone as they maneuvered his legs and arms over the edge.

"What do we do about the frostbite?"

Now that most of his body was concealed by the murky water, the blisters on his feet and fingers were more prominent than before. James turned towards the partially closed door to the hallway and repeated, "What about the frostbite?"

The door squealed as Mark cautiously widened the gap. "All clear?"

"Yup, open the door." Perching against the skin, James gestured for Mark to come in. "We still haven't discussed the frostbite."

"Yeah, well, it's gonna be a problem. Cause all the sites we've found say to submerge the affected area in warm water."

"And we can't do that"-"cause it could cause heart damage." Mark and James finished together.

"Alright," trying to get back on task, Lea broke through their frustration. "What can we do?"

"Elevate. Put soft cotton between his toes and bandage 'em. Then, 'rapid transport to a hospital is very important.'" Mark read from his screen. "It's how all of these treatment articles end – get the victim to a hospital ASAP."

"Since we can't do that, let's do everything else." Already on the move, Lea bumped James from his perch in search of cotton balls. "You wanna go get me some bandage tape? That soft, cotton stuff from the first aid kit?"

Lea kept moving, kept them all moving. As long as you're moving, you can't think, so you don't fall apart.

* * *

They took over bath duties in shifts. The water needed to be changed every fifteen minutes to keep it a steady 100-105 degrees; with every fifteen minutes, the water grew clearer and more scars were revealed. Since hot packs and heating pads were out of the question, Lea filled a gallon-sized zip-lock with warm water to keep the boy's neck warm and propped against the side of the bath. She stayed by his side through the night, leaving only to dig up her ski equipment from the basement. Her long-johns and fleece ski pants would come in handy once it was safe to dress him.

The rest of the house kept busy gathering warm clothing, researching possible side-effects of hypothermia, and beginning to read-up on treatments for starvation. They were all over-caffeinated, exhausted, and overwhelmed by the time their door-bell rang at 5:03am.

"Someone better be dying."

"Morning, Santana." Mark opened the door.

Dropping the bag of supplies in the entryway, Santana marched into the kitchen. "I hope you realize I own you now. If I ever need anything, passcodes to the CIA, winning lottery numbers, new passport to Narnia, I'm calling _you._ Now, where's your coffee?"

Jordan was there to intercept her, a cup of strong, dark roast steaming in her hands. "Yes, I know. Did you get it all?"

Santana gestured to the bag in the hallway, "It's all in there. But what do you need it for? You know you can't get a sugar-high off a glucose IV, right?"

Instead of answering, Jordan grabbed onto Santana with one hand, gripped the bag with the other, and dragged them both upstairs.

* * *

"You're insane! This is in-sane!" gripping her hair, Santana spun on her heel away from the sight of the tub.

"He –" she waved her arm in the general direction of the boy, "is a runaway. A sub. Claimed and marked." Her eyes landed on the small, healed scar on his right arm, left behind from the marking pin that had been sown into his skin at registration. "It is _stupid_ and _reckless_, keeping him here. And, if it's escaped your notice, he's sick! Those blisters aren't from dancing in drag! Shit! This kid needs help. Real, professional help. A bubble bath and a rubber duck ain't gonna do shit for his hypothermia."

"You're it." Infuriatingly calm, Lea placated the ranting Latina. "We know he needs professional help, but you know why we can't take him to the hospital. So, what does he need? What do we have to do?"

"You," Santana rounded on her, "need to take him to the hos-pi-tal. Do you understand me? Hospital. It's sweet that you think you could play on my vanity, but I'm not stupid. Just cause I'm studying to be a nurse doesn't mean I can resurrect frozen subs. Unless they're a sandwich."

Taking a deep breath of warm, humid air, Santana continued "It'll be tricky. But we can drop him off by the ER. We'll have to time the guards so they don't see the license plate. It's the only way to get him help without raising red flags. If we bring him in, you're all getting records for suspicion of abuse and possible theft."

"No." Mark was the first to respond, but he was quickly followed by James and Laura.

"We ain't dropping him off."

"But we can't do that!"

"You see," Lea jumped in before Santana was drowned under a barrage of no's, "we're keeping him. Here. Indefinitely. We are not taking him to the hospital. And it's not cause we're worried for our records. It's cause he will be returned."

Breaking eye contact with Lea, Santana took in the boy for the first time since entering the bathroom. Upon first impression, he was a threat – his mere presence could send them all to jail. Even now, she couldn't help but wish she'd never seen him. But she had. The boy's head lolled against the improvised zip-lock warming pack, his dark curls a stark contrast to the white porcelain of the tub. Long, thick lashes rested against his swollen cheeks, thin lips bright red with newly replenished blood. His nostrils flared with every breath; the movement caught her attention and held her gaze. Something about it, something about his breathing – it was odd. Tilting her head in consideration, Santana wondered what it was. Focusing on the sight, she concentrated.

It was regular. That's what was odd!

The kid's breathing should be slow, uneven. Dropping by his side, she checked his pulse.

"It's been getting better. He was near 50 beats per minute last time I checked." Lea nudged the blood pressure cuff towards Santana's feet.

With one last look at the boy's face, Santana grabbed the cuff and glanced behind her. "Get me the bag. We're bringing this kid back from the dead."

* * *

As always, it would be fantastic to hear your thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

Ok, this chapter is a little nerve-wracking for me. I really hope you enjoy it, and there will be a second update either tonight, or tomorrow; it depends on how much time it takes me to get groceries and make dinner. Thank you SO MUCH for your reviews, they are incredibly helpful and inspiring.

As ever, don't own Glee.

* * *

By the time the first beams of sunlight stroked the rooftops of 56th St, Number 127 had reached the stage of hazy delirium. Jitters from over-caffeination gave way to numbing exhaustion as the adrenaline of the night began to wear off. The kitchen became the central hub of activity for those who had been kicked out of Lea's bedroom. Which, overnight, became the boy's bedroom. They agreed it was one of the most comfortable rooms in the house; not only was it easily isolated, kept quiet and warm, but it was also the only bedroom with a couch. Before last night, the couch had never been used, having been inherited from the previous residents, too large and heavy to be moved downstairs. But now, it was repurposed into Lea's bed, complete with sheets, pillows, and a book, ready for use whenever Lea could slow down long enough to take a nap.

"He'll live." Santana announced, checking the kid's vitals. He was buried under a mountain of blankets, the layers progressively growing softer as they got closer to his skin. Under Santana's abrasive supervision, Lea and Mark learned to bandage his deepest wounds, apply ointment to his bruises, and change his IV bags. After nearly two hours in the warm bath, his skin lost its coating of dirt and acquired a healthy, pink tint. Lea determinedly pushed past the paralysis that set in whenever she caught sight of his back and legs – whoever he'd run from left a mark on every inch.

It was a relief to see him cuddled deep into warm mattress, soft curls of dark hair drying against his pillow, and his tortured body obscured by wool, fleece, and down.

"What's next?" Lea asked as she checked the volume on his IV.

"Sleep. Sex. Brittney. I'm thinking simple – ball gag and handcuffs." Setting the blood pressure cuff on the bedside table, Santana pushed off her perch on the bed and started gathering her supplies.

"We've done all we could_._ So we wait." She mumbled into the depths of her enormous purse. "Keep checking his breathing, keep him warm, and keep him hydrated. When he wakes up, don't let him rip his IV out. Apart from that…I don't know what you were thinking, taking in a sick, abused, runaway sub, but soon you will add 'awake' to that list of adjectives – and with that, comes a whole new layer of shit-storm."

Slinging her bag over her shoulder and tossing her scarf carelessly about her neck, Santana turned to toward their patient, hand resting on the doorknob and a soft look relaxing her features, "It'll be alright. There's no one I'd rather leave Curly Q with. Call me when he wakes."

With that she was gone, along with a thermos full of coffee and milk.

* * *

Blaine regained consciousness twice throughout the day. He surfaced to the sensation of soft, silken sheets under his fingertips and napped, wispy wool tickling his neck. When his eyelids fluttered, he was momentarily blinded by _white. _Sunbeams flooded the windows and streaked the room in surreal light. It was dizzying, and for a moment he couldn't decide just how much he believed it was real. The sheets tickling his body were so crisp they felt cool. The bed was so soft and the blankets so thick, their embrace felt like a loving hug. Concluding that he'd died during the night, Blaine closed his eyes and left himself drift – if this was death, it was far superior to life.

The second time he woke, it was to the scent of snickerdoodle cookies and Earl Grey tea. This time, raindrops beat a steady pattern against dark windows and the walls were bathed in the glow of a lamp. When his heavy head fell to the side, Blaine nuzzled into the soft pillow caressing his cheek. What a beautiful place. Curiosity drove him to blink open his eyes to take in more of this world where beds were warm, and sheets were clean and light was everywhere. The first thing he noticed was a steaming cup resting on a bedside table covered in books. Swirls of hot air dance under the light of a dimly lit lamp. A thick, plush armchair stood askew by his bed, a woven throw draped over its back.

What a beautiful world.

A slow smile settled into his lips. Trying to sink deeper into this heaven, Blaine took a deep breath of Earl Grey and cookies. The warm air tickled his throat and burned through his lungs, promptly sending him into a dizzying coughing-fit. Suddenly, a weight settled into the mattress to his right, a soft hand cupped his cheek and brushed against his forehead. A gentle, cooing voice hushed his coughs and wrapped him in a new layer of warmth. Blaine drifted, relaxed, and sank deeper into the mattress as his heavy body rocked to sleep under the soft guidance of her voice.

* * *

Lea sipped the last of her tea when Jordan entered the bedroom.

"I come bearing gifts," she whispered, setting some cookies on a stack of book. "Careful, they're still pretty hot."

Handing Lea a tall glass of milk, Jordan settled her gaze on the boy. It barely looked as if he'd moved in the past sixteen hours, but now his cheeks, which had been pallid and grey, were stained bright red. A ribbon of sweat prickled his brow – it didn't take a doctor to know this boy was deep in the throes of a fever. "How is he?"

"He woke up."

Jordan jerked around at the news, "What! Did he say something? What happened?"

"Nothing, he was coughing. I think he has pneumonia – it was a pretty bad cough, and his temperature keeps rising. I already called Santana for some antibiotics. But I checked his frostbite, and I think he's safe. The skin is turning pink."

The room descended into silence. It hurt to imagine what it would have meant had his skin stayed blue.

Breaking through the melancholy, Jordan nudged Lea's shoulder and nodded to her new make-shift bed, "Are you planning on getting any sleep? You know you're useless to him now."

"Yeah, I'm just waiting to change this IV bag. It shouldn't take much longer – by the time…" she was interrupted by a drowsy yawn. It was suddenly much harder to keep her eyes open, as a second yawn quickly rode the coat-tails of the first one.

"Seriously," leveling Lea with a glare, Jordan handed her a cookie and rose from the bed, "soon, you'll be the one under a glucose drip."

* * *

A pinch woke her up. Wincing, Lea rolled her neck but ended up digging it harder into the unforgiving frame of the armrest. Shuffling into a seated position and still uncoordinated from sleep, she flung her hand to the back of her neck in hopes of working out the knots. The movement nearly toppled her off the couch, but she caught herself in time to brace for the fall. The sheet and blanket had twisted so badly in the narrow space, it took her a moment to untangle herself from their grip. This was starting to look like a rather unpleasant morning.

Stumbling to her feet, Lea groggily swiped her phone off its charger and checked the time. It was just passed 7am. Cursing, she glared at the armrest that woke her at this ungodly hour – no wonder that thing had never been used; it has no purpose beyond slow torture. Now that the couch knew exactly what she thought of it, Lea toed at her slippers and prepared to make her way to the kitchen.

The sight on the bed arrested her.

The boy was up. Wake and shaking, he pressed himself into the corner of the bed, head tucked into his knees and bracketed by trembling arms. Rapid breaths, rattling with sickness, alerted her to the state of his pneumonia. His sick glistened with a sheen of sweat. His feet dug into the mattress, pushing his back deeper into the crevice between the wall and the window-sill, as if he could push straight through the wall if he could just try hard enough.

Considering her approach, Lea slowed down long enough to notice the most concerning thing – splotches of red. He had clawed out his IV.

When her foot landed on a squeaky board, his head shot out of his arms and his terrified eyes locked onto Lea's concerned gaze. He jerked, turning into his side, unable to look away but desperate to get away. Fevered amber glowed from below his brows, his wet eyes pleading as his lips trembled around unsteady breaths.

"Please…" he whispered.

The sound of his torn voice, the sight of his wide eyes, they beaconed Lea to his side before her mind decided what to say. What could she say? What comfort could she offer him?

"Please," dropping to her knees by the side of his bed, Lea rested a hand on the very edge of the mattress, curling her fingers useless into the sheet, "please, let me help."

His head shook in spastic quivers as he brought one arm to wrap defensively around his belly, fear clenching his stomach and causing deep cramps. "Please, please, please," whimpering and rocking he repeated the phrase until he felt the bed dip as Lea sat on the edge. "NO! Don't! Please, please, don't!"

"It's alright," Lea cooed, reaching out to him, "you're alright. It's safe now. No one will hurt you. You've done nothing wrong. Please, let me help you. You're bleeding. Please, let me see your arm."

Her hand had inched until it lay about a foot away from the boy's side. He'd tensed, pressed tightly into the wall and squeezed himself into an impenetrable ball, as if bracing for a blow, continuing to murmur and beg.

"I'm Lea." Earnestly, she tried to pull the boy back into his mind. "You're here now. You're safe. And you've been so brave. So strong. Such a good boy."

It stopped. His shivers stopped, and so did his frantic whispering. He seized and stilled for a moment, before slowly unfurling far enough to peek out at Lea from behind his hands.

"That's right. Such a good boy." Lea's face relaxed into a kind, familial smile. "Very good boy. Please, please...let me see your arm. I promise to help."

He considered her from behind a wall of dark curls until, stilted and fitful, his hand crept out of his knotted body.

"Thank you. That's great. What a good boy." Her smile grew until it touched her eyes as Lea slowly reached out until her palm circled around his wrist. The boy's breath caught in his throat, but he did not pull back, and she rewarded him with a light caress. "It's alright. It's stopped bleeding now, but we should clean it up and put something over it, just in case."

Grabbing an alcohol wipe off the table, she gently cleaned the small puncture wound. "It was just a fluid IV with a glucose drip. You were very sick last night. It was supposed to get help you get better. But you are awake now, so we don't need it. Does it hurt?"

She glanced up from her task to see the boy avert his eyes but shake his head. "Well, that's good."

"Mess." His dry voice crackled at the word.

"Sorry, what?"

"Made a mess." Distrustfully, he tugged his clean arm away from Lea and burrowed his head back into his knees.

"It's alright. It's not your fault. I understand, you were scared. I'm sorry I wasn't there when you woke up. It's my fault that you bled." Settling closer, Lea brought a light hand to the boy's back. Predictably, he tensed, but after a moment, she felt the muscles of his back haltingly relax, as if he were forcing them slack by sheer force of will. "You've done nothing wrong. You're a very good boy."

Just as before, the words had a transformative effect on the boy. Immediately, his body went limp with a deep, shaky breath and he rolled his head onto its side. Clear, amber eyes shone with unshed tears and his lip trembled around some emotion he tried to contain in his furrowed brow.

Swallowing his tears, the boy let his legs fall from his grasp and climbed out of his corner into the middle of the bed. Picking at the weave of a wool blanket, he heaved a faltering sigh before gathering the courage to face Lea head-on.

"I need to pee."

* * *

Please, if you have the time and the motivation, leave a review.

Also, to the fangirl who's review I couldn't answer: Thank you! I'm glad that there are no glaring errors - and I am sure there are errors here and there (I've seen them), but at least it's readable.

I have been having a lot of questions about Kurt. He will show up either in next chapter on the one after (SORRY, the 2-4K word est. was actually from before this chapter was posted). There is a reason for keeping him away for so long, and I promise that it will make sense. But there are a couple of storylines that need to be in place before he shows up. Plus, Blaine is an abused sub - introducing him to yet another young Dom at the moment is not the best idea. Once he is there, the story will be centered on Klaine, with a couple of other Glee canon characters coming out from the woodwork. Burt included.


	5. Chapter 5

When I saw that my plan to introduce Kurt in the this chapter failed, I hoped to hold off updating until I wrote him into the story - but I don't want to create too big a gap between what I'm writing and what you're reading. So, here is another chapter. If you want Kurt NOW, don't read it yet. There will be another chapter going up today or tomorrow that will introduce his character. Thanks!

* * *

"Oh!" the simple admission struck Lea – it felt big. It was the first phrase he'd uttered without his voice shaking and his breath hitching. The force of his plea shuddered through Lea; for the first time, she realized how completely she held this boy's life in her hands. Suddenly, he seemed much smaller, much younger, and so much more vulnerable, "Of course. There's a bathroom just down the hall. But-" her mind caught up to her and promptly reminded Lea of his frostbite. Having read several articles on frostbite recovery the night before, she knew that it was dangerous (not to mention painful) to put any weight on the healing blisters.

"Wait!" She shot out an arm, ready to steady him when she saw the boy climbing over the edge of the bed.

But the sound died in a soft echo as her breath caught in her throat. The boy swung over the side of the bed and landed painfully on badly bruised knees, yelping but settling into a submissive kneel. He whimpered and shut his eyes against the onslaught of sharp pain. Instinctively, he clenched his hands into fists, but the frostbite on his fingertips sent another shock through his nerves and a sob crawled into his throat. Before another sound could escape, he pressed his lips shut and lowered his head.

"Sweetheart," promptly settling by his side, Lea reached out to wrap an arm around his back, "not here. You don't have to kneel here. Please," gently nudging him to shift his weight onto his side, "you're going to hurt yourself."

Stiff as a board, the boy tipped his body into the crook of Lea's arm, several pained tears wetting his cheek.

"Shhhh, you're ok."

Emboldened by his reaction, Lea brought a hand to run through his curls and press him deeper into a hug. Carding her hand through his hair and running an arm down his spine, she pushed as much comfort as she could into the embrace. Once the boy melted into her hands, Lea tilted her head to whisper in his ear.

"Thank you. You're so good. Such a good boy. I don't want you to hurt. And I don't want you to hurt yourself. Please, don't kneel or crawl in this house. I hate to think of you in pain."

The boy's body shuddered as he swallowed a sob. His chest heaved from two deep inhales, shivering as he battled for calm.

Continuing to run a soft hand over his back, Lea cautioned, "You have frostbite from the cold. It's gonna hurt to walk, and we need to let it heal. Can you, please, try to trust? We want to help you, I want to help you. No one will hurt you here."

With great caution and some curiosity, the boy pulled out of Lea's embrace and roughly wiped his cheeks. He looked up, wet, honeyed eyes reflecting the timid morning light starting to creep through the window.

"There're four other people living in this house." Speaking softly, steadily, Lea maintained eye-contact with the sub. This was her first test – it was far too soon to ask him to put his trust into so many people. She took a deep breath and steadied a hand on his wrist. "There's one sub, two switches, and another Dom."

The pulse under her fingertips quickened as the boy's eyes widened and he shifted away from her.

"We all want to help." She hurried forward. "I know this is hard for you. We've done nothing to earn your trust. But, I'm asking, please give us a chance. I swear we will not hurt you. I swear you will stay safe."

Trying to catch his eye, Lea settled her hands over his wrists and gently caressed the bruised skin. Two thick bands of blue, green, and purple encircled his wrist bones, the thickest line decorated with thinner bands from ropes and handcuffs. The boy didn't need to be restrained to be bound – there were permanent cuffs of bruises binding his wrists.

"Please, can I call someone to help you?" She asked, ducking her head to meet his gaze. "I don't trust myself to carry you. I promise, once you're healed, I won't ask this again. But for now – it will hurt so much if you walk."

The boy lifted his head but couldn't meet her eye. It was a clear struggle – a struggle for trust and faith, which he had all the reason to withhold and yet so much temptation to give. Nervously, hesitantly, and so much like a child, the lifted his eyes to Lea's and asked, "Will I be OK?"

Her chest shuddered with a broken breath, and before she knew it, a tear rolled down Lea's cheek. "Oh, sweetheart," bringing an arm to wrap around him, Lea whispered into his curls "you will be so much better than OK. I promise you."

With a watery smile, she climbed to her feet and said, "Just wait- just one second, OK? I'll be right back."

Leaving the boy propped up against the side of the bed, she hurried toward James's room, hoping the Switch was awake. While Mark was the earlier riser, he was also a Dom. No, Lea thought as she hopped off the last step, James was the right choice.

And he was awake. When Lea popped her head into his room after a light knock, she found him stumbling into a pair of pants while hobbling out of the closet. Spotting her in his doorway, James yawned by way of greeting and waved her inside.

"He's awake."

Stopping in the middle of wiggling into a shirt, James popped his head through the tee and asked, "He alright? Everything OK?"

"Yes, but he needs the bathroom. And the frostbite- can you help? Carry him?" she clarified.

"Of course." Now that he was dressed, James was considerably more awake and headed for the door. But Lea stopped him.

"Go slow. He's very frightened." With a light tug, she pulled James into the hallway but kept him close. "It's hard not to get angry around him – his whole body is covered in marks and he _knelt, _on his _knees_, did you see how badly bruised they were? He knelt 'cause he thought he wasn't allowed to stand. But he spooks, so reign it in. Just talk him through it. Just" she huffed, "just don't get angry."

"That why you asked me and not Mark?" James nudged her with a teasing smile. "Cause he's a Dom? You do remember how switches work, right?"

Rolling her eyes, Lea set off down the hall "Yes, but the whole protective thing…since you're not a Dom, at least not a full-time one, I'm hoping you'll have better luck controlling it. Plus, I think that the longer we put off introducing him to a male Dom, the better."

By then, they'd reached the upstairs landing. There were about ten feet to Lea's bedroom door, but she couldn't move. Suddenly frozen, Lea stared at her closed bedroom door and saw the small, broken boy just on the other side.

"Hey, you OK?" Placing a hand on her should, James asked with concern. "You look scared."

"I am. You will too when you see just how easily we could break him."

* * *

Inside the bedroom, Blaine tried hard not to think. His racing heart sped in his chest as thoughts battled for dominance and clouded his mind. He wanted to run. So badly, so deeply. Just be elsewhere, be somewhere where it never hurt, where he never cried. Here, he was scared. Here, his knees throbbed and his feet itched and his body ached. And there was too much he didn't know- couldn't know. But more than anything, what scared him most, was how badly he wanted to stay. How deeply he wanted to believe and trust that he was safe. He recoiled from the thought, but the deep burn in his heart that ached to believe flickered but stayed lit.

Blinking against the confused chaos of his thoughts, Blaine focused on taking stock of his body. Oddly, he didn't feel parched. The gnawing of his empty stomach wasn't accompanied by the familiar thirst, so lasting that he couldn't moisten his mouth enough to swallow a gulp of his spit. It was maddening, the sensation of slowing drying up, like a leaf losing its life. You could feel it under your skin, as if your own blood grew thicker without some water to wetten you mouth.

It was many months ago when he recalled the stories of vampires. He'd been shackled for days and delirious from thirst when he heard a woman's voice reading to him a story of beautiful night-creatures in long black capes wakening from their cold deathbeds to walk among the living and drink their blood. While his shackles left deep bruises over his wrist and the skin of his back itched with oozing wounds, his ears vibrated with the cooing of his mother's voice as she read him a bedtime story. He knew that thirst now, knew how deeply it settled into one's bones – knew why it could waked even the dead.

But the thirst was gone now. His mouth felt moist and his skin didn't feel as if it were stretched over canvas. And while his mind rushed between thoughts, it didn't feel hazy. There was none of that weakness and lethargy that weighed on his consciousness and sent him into darkness. While his old wounds ached, his nerves weren't firing with new pain. No matter how broken or bruised he may be now, it was the best he had felt in conscious memory.

That didn't stop the sharp twitch that raced through his bones when the bedroom door reopened. The sight of a man, a tall, dark man with strong arms and thick hands send Blaine scrambling round the corner of the bed.

"Sweetheart," Lea threw out her arm in a gesture of peace and surrender, "it's alright. James here is a Switch. He's a good man and he wants to help. Please, can you let us come closer?"

Taking tentative steps into the room, Lea slowly approached the curled up boy. "You're being so brave. Thank you so much. Such a good boy."

Now that she knew the effect of the phrase, she couldn't help wishing she could whisper it in his ear – a constant reminder that he was good, that he was loved, that he was safe. But the phrase also endued her with power; she felt how easily this boy could be manipulated with affection. The thought sent a tendril of rage at the man who had withheld all care from this child for so long, but she suppressed the emotion before it reflected in her eyes.

Looking behind her, she shared a sad smile with the startled and overwhelmed Switch before inviting him to join her on the floor. James shook himself out his stupor and slowly lowered himself to his knees before nearing the frightened sub.

"Hey, kid." The shaking of his voice could've been dismissed as a consequence of sleep, by his trembling lips gave away his deep emotion. "I hear you're doing much better than before. Good to see you up."

He settled himself at Lea's side and waited patiently for the boy's inspection. The kid was nervous to turn his eyes in James's direction, but with time, he cast a hasty glance from under the heavy cascade of his dark curls. Uncertain, he quickly averted his glance back to the floor, but slowly uncurled from his protective ball.

"OK."

It was whispered so softly, Lea couldn't trust she heard him right. "Alright?"

A stiff nod and a hesitant hand. She reached out to slot her palm in his and give him a reassuring squeeze. "Alright."

* * *

Lea and James waited beside the partially closed door while the boy shuffled into a comfortable seated position. His face had shut off the minute he settled into James's arms, betraying none of his thoughts and staying averted from their gaze. He didn't seem embarrassed by his nudity, though remembering the cloth he'd been found with, Lea wasn't surprised. But there was something odd, and different, about the way he shrank from their touch as they fussed over him in the bathroom. Stiff and closed off, the boy radiated shame.

"We'll be right outside. Let us know when you're ready." Lea turned to give the boy a moment alone, but when her hand settled on the door handle, the boy startled, a choked whimper spinning Lea in his direction. Wide honeyed eyes searched hers. She gentled him with a smile and said, "You're fine. You're safe. How 'bout I leave this slightly open – you'll be able to see me right outside, okay?"

After receiving a jerky nod in response, Lea tugged the door behind her back and released a long sigh.

"He doesn't weigh a thing." James muttered under his breath. "When I lifted him…there are pillows heavier than that poor kid. Lea, we've got to do something." He turned abruptly and she saw the manic look of desperation on his face. "We have to help him! Tell me there's something we can do to help him."

"We are." Lea whispered around an indulgent smile. "We're doing exactly what we can."

They settled into a pregnant silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

"Did you hear that?"

"Hmm?" Lea strained, listening for a signal from the boy. A slight cough caught her attention and she turned to knock on the doorframe. "Ready?"

Getting no response, she cautiously propped open the door, her brow furrowed and movements stilted; she hoped she wasn't about to break the boy's trust by invading his privacy without invitation. "Sweetheart?"

The boy sat on the toilet, sheepish and flushed a splotchy pink. It appeared that he'd been ready for a while, but couldn't come up with a way to catch their attention.

"I didn't- I-I couldn't…" ducking his head back into chest, he mumbled just loud enough for Lea to overhear, "it hurt."

Squatting beside him, Lea rested her palms on his knobby knees and asked, "What hurt? Are you alright?"

With a shrug and a small jerk of his head, the boy pointed to the handle. "Couldn't flush. Twisting hurt."

The expression on his face was so close to a pout, Lea nearly burst out laughing. Smothering the urge in a tight, crooked smile, Lea reached over the boy to tap the handle and wrap him in a hug. "Come on. Let's get you back to bed."

With James's help, they were back in the bedroom and settling the boy under the sheets.

"I dug up some soft, warm clothes you could wear. They may be a little long, but they should be cozy." Lea settled a stack of her long-johns and sweats next to the boy. "Why don't you get dressed while I bring you some food. I'm sure you're starved."

The hand that had been petting a fleece hoodie stilled at the mention of food and the boy's gaze jumped to Lea's face, eyes sharp and distrusting. Whether it was the mention of starvation or some trauma associated with feeding from the past (God knows what his previous Dom made him do for a morsel), Lea blushed and cursed herself for the unfortunate word-choice. Hoping for a distraction, Lea found an unexpected ally – at that moment, the boy's stomach gave a loud, rolling growl.

Chuckling, James hopped off the bed and offered, "How 'bout I head to the kitchen and put a pot of soup on the stove. I'm sure you'd like something hot in that stomach."

Lea gave him a grateful nod while the boy started played with the edge of Lea's fleece ski-pants.

"Wanna try 'em on?"

His head shot up, sharp eyes sweeping Lea's face. She watched as his brow furrowed and he pursed his lips, keeping her own face warm and open.

Ducking his head, Blaine returned to petting the warm fabric. He could read no deception in her eyes, no malice or anger – but that didn't mean they weren't there. It didn't mean her kindness was for free. "They're for me?"

He caught the movement of her nod out of the corner of his eye. "What-how? How do I-…earn them?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Blaine caught his lip in his teeth, worrying it in tiny bites – it wasn't his place to ask questions, it wasn't his place to speak at all.

"They are yours." Distracting him, Lea tugged one of his hands into hers. "I want you to have them. I want you to stay warm and safe – there is nothing you have to do to earn your comfort." Years of training taught him that every mercy was paid for with pain. But, at least for now, he saw no alternative but to accept her kindness. Pulling a sweatshirt from the stack, Blaine shyly tugged it over his head. The material pooled around his hips and slipped low over his collar-bone, accentuating his slim waist and sharp ribcage. Something deeply foreign and maternal tugged at Lea's heart as she reached to roll up the draping sleeves. While she unfolded the pants, Blaine ran a reverent hand over the fuzzy lining of the sweatshirt – warm softness tickled his palm. As Lea helped him into the long-johns, Blaine's chest felt tighter and his throat choked on new tears. His throbbing heart swelled with an odd emotion, so new, so foreign, and unknown, Blaine couldn't name it – with time, he'd learn that it was joy.

* * *

"Morning!"

The kitchen was already filled with the scent of a new day – coffee, when Mark walked through the doorway.

"Soup for breakfast?" He threw the question at James before opening the fridge. It gave a satisfying _chmok,_ reminiscent of a resounding wet kiss, when the rubber broke its seal and parted to reveal the treasures inside. Mark zeroed in on the bacon and sausages, grabbing some eggs as an afterthought.

"Did you already grab the cream?" He turned to James when he failed to locate the carton. "Dude, what's wrong? You look a little ill."

"He's up."

Face scrunching in confusion, Mark circled the kitchen island to plop down next to James. "Who's up?"

"The kid. The kid's up." Running a tired hand over his face, James explained, "The soup's for him. Fuck, man, he's been through hell. It's hard just being around him. I know it shouldn't be, and I know I ain't doing him any favors, but…it's- it's hard." When he lifted his face from his hands, a deep scowl etched in his lips, Mark nearly took a step back. "I'm disgusted by that scumbag who did this, and I'm angry that it happened to him, and I'm embarrassed that I have no idea what to do or how to help him! What are we supposed to tell him? That we're sorry? That it won't happen again? When it's someone exactly like us who did this him in the first place! Some Dom or Switch put those cuts all over his body. It was someone like us."

James's rage dissipated and left him deflated and weak. "I just can't believe that someone did this to him."

Mark swallowed down his response, knowing that nothing he could say now would make any difference. With a supportive pat on James's shoulder, he stepped away and came back with a bowl. "This. This is what we do now. Lea said to bring him soup – that's what we do. And that's what makes us different. Come on. Get up and finish the coffee."

With one final nudge, he left James to find the sugar in favor of measuring out a bowl of the soup and pureeing it in the blender. It was a light vegetable soup Laura had specifically prepared in anticipation of the boy's awakening. A pot of chicken broth was still on the counter from the night before, waiting for its final ingredients.

Just as he stepped out of the kitchen with the bowl in hand, James stopped him. "Lea said to wait before introducing you. You're a guy, and a Dom – could be a bad combination, you know, what with his trauma. Just let it rest on the counter while I make tea for Lea – we all know she lives off that stuff."

Unexpectedly hurt, Mark set the bowl down and pushed down a flare of anger. An itch prickled his skin as a leering voice hummed in his ear. How easy it would be to order James to stand down. He was a Dom, it was his right to take care of any sub in his household. Fisting a hand, Mark struggled to drown the voice of his aimless domination. In the hectic chaos of the last two days, he'd nearly forgotten about it – but apparently, the urge still burned in his veins.

"You're right. I should sit this one out." Stuffing his shaking hands deep into the pockets of his robe, Mark pivoted out of James's eyesight. "Yes, you go on up. I'll just- yeah, you know what, I think I forgot something in my room. You go on, I'll see you down here. Later."

Ducking behind his bedroom door, Mark took a long deep breath. Fuck. If it was bad before, the urge was so much deeper now. He remembered Lea's words from the night he dominated Laura, if only for a second; "whatever's going on – fix it." Well, now there was a vulnerable, abused sub in the house – he needed to control this. Pressing his ear to the door, Mark heard the kettle give its shrill whistle, heard James knock over a cup as he searched for Lea's mug. He waited until James's even footsteps sounded in the hall. It wasn't until James gave a soft knock on Lea's door that he pushed off his door and crossed the room. The armoire gave a guilty squeak as he tugged on the bottom shelf and he suppressed the urge to glance behind him. There, behind a stack of old notes and textbooks, lay a small orange pill box. In it, lay four tiny pills. Mark tipped them into his palm, eyeing them with distrust.

He bought the suppressants when he was eighteen. One week, the domination grew so strong, he felt it would tear him apart – for days, he was feverish, shaking and weak. The presence of a sub was enough to ignite him, the domination taking him over and driving him mad. After a couple of days of this torture, he climbed out of his bedroom window and went to parking lot known for unsavory deals. He had just enough courage to squeak out his order and hand the cloaked man a handful of cash. By the time he clambered back into his room, Mark was drenched in cold sweat and shocked by his daring. The fear and adrenaline knocked the domination back down into his chest, and he didn't dare take the pills. But he kept them. Kept the little orange pill box, unopened and waiting.

There, in his hand, the little pills looked so…safe. Small. They could be anything – cough medicine, advil. But some treacherous part of his mind cried out "they're suppressants!" A false name, to be sure. No one quite knew what suppressants were – how they were made. No chemical could fight nature, so every Dom responded differently, but their goal was to overload, give a high enough kick to satisfy the domination and let it cool down. But what happened between the moment of taking them and regaining control – that's what made them illegal. Dangerous, both to the taker and to those in his way.

Just as Blaine took his first mouthful of hot, hearty soup, Mark swallowed his first dose of suppressants.

* * *

Thank you for your reviews! I would love to hear your thoughts, but please don't hate me for the absence of Kurt. This story is going to be LONG, and Kurt will come into play soon and then stick around forever.


	6. Chapter 6

I am terrified of posting. First of all, because there was such a huge wait. I deeply apologize and have legitimate reasons for not writing as much. I am picking up the pace, but I was really hoping to put off updates until Kurt shows up. That is not working - and I know that it's unforgivable to keep Kurt away for so long, but we can't start rebuilding Blaine until we learn just how broken he really is. So, please be patient and forgiving. I am doing my best, and really hope you enjoy the story, slow as it may be.

Oh, crap! I forgot a ton of warnings! I am so sorry to anyone who started reading - but please be away that there is violence, mentions of sexual abuse, long-term psychological torture, and starvation. **_ Please proceed with caution!_**

* * *

"Mother fucking…god damn!" Growling, Lea jammed the innocent white cap of Blaine's medicine bottle with so much force, it nearly flew out of her hand. "Who designed this? Child-proof my ass…" she continued muttering as she fiddled with the alignment of the cap on its ridges. Santana had brought the Vancomycin the day before, while Blaine was asleep and buried under a small mountain of blankets. She'd left it on the kitchen counter under a post-it note entitled "To the Idiots Harboring a Runaway" with instructions to administer it three times a day, with plenty of food, for the next seven days. It took Lea nearly fifteen minutes to open the bottle during Blaine's breakfast, and now it seemed to take just as long to close the damn thing.

"Problems?"

James rushed into the kitchen, backpack slung over his shoulder and a stack of folders peaking from under his arm. Blinking against the harsh neon of his over-the-pants biking shorts, Lea took a moment to appreciate the sound of polyester shushing on his every stride – much like the sounds of playful feet skipping through dry leaves.

"Just trying to close a childproof medicine bottle. Pretty sure it's easier to hack into the NSA than open one of these things. Running late?"

With his folders slipping across the counter, James reached for the coffee pot before stumbling towards the fridge for his pre-packed lunch. "Yup, Laura and Jordan already headed out, but I was running behind, what with the soup and all. It's fine – I'll take my bike. Need to ride it more often anyways." He caught a glimpse of Lea's guilt-ridden face and pulled her into a quick hug. "Really, it's fine. I was glad to help – it was more important anyways."

When his papers and poorly locked container of food were safely stowed in his bag, James brushed the hair out of his eyes and asked, "How is he, by the way?"

"Fine, I think. He fell asleep. I think his body isn't used to processing real food. I'll stay with him today – I already emailed my profs. He may have trouble with the antibiotics; I know I always feel like shit when I take 'em."

He hummed in agreement, patting himself down for keys, phone, and wallet. Finding them all in their appropriate pockets, James spun on his heel and gave Lea a tiny wave, "Well, I'm out. I'm sure you'll enjoy a day to yourself. Be good!"

With that, Lea found herself alone.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that settles after a blast. Grounding herself and immersing herself in the silence, Lea was reminded of popping bubble tape – short burst of sound, which seemed that much louder thanks to the proceeding quiet between each pop. She rinsed out her cup of tea before placing it in the dishwasher, enveloped in cloying warmth and suspended light. It was so rare she had the house all to herself. Frequently the first to leave and the last to get back, Lea was used to these walls rattling with the sound of footsteps and crisscrossed conversations. Usually, by the time she'd step into the house, shake off the raindrops from her hair, hang her coat on the last peg and settle her wet umbrella against the drying stack over in the corner, the house would be full of sound and light. Someone's phone would be playing music and banging in the kitchen would signal dinner. That was home.

But now, the house was empty. It took Lea some time to reconcile the home she knew to this slumbering giant; the echo of a hasty breakfast haunted her, occasionally interrupted by the creaking walls and the snoring pipes. So this was the secret life of Number 127 during their absences.

Resisting the temptation to put the kettle back on the stove for her second cup of morning tea, Lea left the kitchen and made her way upstairs. The boy was sleeping, curled up on his side and gently huffing on every inhale – she'd have to remember to give him some Sudafed next time he wakes. With one of his palms splayed across the pillow by his face, he looked much like a child about to suck his thumb for comfort. With a gentle smile, Lea brushed a curl out of his face and settled back into her armchair for a day of silence.

* * *

The University shook with sound. Its halls vibrated with garbled chatter and stampeding footsteps between lectures on cue of the piercing bell. A tidal wave of students erupted during passing period, and with it came the discussion of weekend plans, complaints about harsh TAs, and predictions of upcoming essay topics. Smith Hall housed the Political Science and International Relations Department of the Amnesty University – Mark's academic home and intellectual comfort zone.

Leaving Professor Meyer's Intro to Foreign Policy lecture, he stepped into the hallways and reveled in the chaos. The humming energy buzzed through him. It felt raw. It felt strong. It felt good. So fucking, brilliantly good.

Turning against the current in the direction of the main hall, Mark cut his way through the sea of milling undergrads. Everything seemed different – as if he were walking through this hall for the first time. Instead of feet and backpacks, steps and tiles, all around him were faces and windows. He felt different. He _was_ different. The domination, which usually fluttered through his body, humming and twitching, now lay firm and heavy over his chest. It was dense, solid, present, and full. He was proud to carry it, proud to own it. It was his.

A bright smile tugged at his lips. It was such a great day.

The heavy oak door of Smith Hall burst upon Mark's approach, bathing him in autumn sun. The air was crisp and light, cold as only a clear fall day can be. Rather than shrink from the cold, Mark savored a deep, long inhale of golden leaves and fresh-fallen rain. The chill invigorated him, sparking his senses and putting an extra skip in his step as he danced his way down the steps. Was this how it was supposed to feel like? Is this how Lea felt every day? Invincible. Overwhelming. Complete.

Landing on the Quad, Mark reeled in the giddiness swelling in his chest. Ribbons of joy surrounded him, but he jealously clutched them, swallowing hysterical laughter. This moment was his; he was on top of the world, and no one could touch that. For the first time in his life, Mark felt free. The domination didn't weigh on him, didn't shake him; it lay purring over his heart, at peace in his body. It was nice to feel, for once in his life, that he wasn't too small for what he was intended. For once, he felt like a Dom.

Shaking his sleeve down to his elbow, Mark glanced at his watch. It was 1:37pm, which gave him plenty of time until his afternoon session. Turning in the direction of the Ave, Mark slung his leather shoulder-bag behind him and set off at a brisk pace in the direction of his favorite coffee-shop. It was a little hole in the wall, tucked in an alley behind the myriad of cafes and restaurants all jostling for student business along the main strip. But if one were to walk past all the blinking neon signs advertising cheap lunches and quick to-go service, you'd find yourself in a haven of recycled furniture, dim lights, and perfectly brewed coffee.

Turning right on 92nd St. and ducking immediately behind Taste of India, Mark allowed a broad smile to overtake his features in the privacy of the back-alley. The Ugly Mug beckoned him for more reasons than their dark roast. Today was a Thursday, which meant that Lana was working her lunch shift.

A beautiful, tall art student, Lana attracted Mark's attention from his first visit to the little café. It was in his sophomore year of college, and good lord – has it already been that long? Mark was in his first year of grad school, and he had yet to say more that "the usual" in her presence. But, Mark reminded himself, today was different; today was better. Filled with purpose, he stepped over the threshold of the Ugly Mug, his focus dashing to prod at the dominance weighing on his chest. Relieved and reassured when he found it right under the surface, Mark stepped up to the counter and tapped on the concierge bell, sending a pleasant echo reverberating in the hollow space.

"Be right with you!" Lana's voice harmonized with the dimming echo. He relished the sound.

_Knock, knock, knock_ of her heals teased at Mark's senses. The awoken domination stirred in his chest, unfurling and reaching out as if it too were anticipating Lana's arrival. Mark felt it sweep along his body, skimming along the surface of his skin and leaving every nerve ending pleasantly buzzing. The zap of it left him restless and shifting as he glanced toward the kitchen doorway, willing her to appear.

Clear, complete, and entirely unbidden, a thought rang in his head. He could. He could will her. Lana was a Switch, and he could do as he wished – make _her _do as he wished.

Mark braced his right hand on the counter, stumbling from the weight and implication of his thoughts. Casting a furtive glance toward the kitchen (trying to gauge whether Lana heard the whispers of his mind), Mark curled his hand into a fist and pulled himself up. He was a Dom, goddamnit!

"Come here."

The words left his mouth quicker than he uttered them. They rang, clear and bright, pure of domination and demand. Unlike ever before, when he heard the command echo in his ears, there was no urge to tug it back, no regrets, no shame. For the first time, giving an order felt right, felt good – it filled him with deep sense of purpose. Calmed and satisfied, the domination retreated into his chest and purred as each _knock_ of Lana's high heels brought her closer to the doorway.

When she appeared in the clearing, her eyes were downcast and her hands were clenched. Timidly peaking up, Lana faltered in her approach, eyes widening in recognition of her "tall, double shot, extra-hot latte" regular. A whisper slithered in Mark's ear, murmuring that he could send just a lick of domination to hurry her along, could punish her for doubting, questing his resolve, but he stayed put. In fact, he enjoyed her hesitation – it was a mark for how far he'd come.

His eyes danced with joy, soft and gentle, but the smirk on his lips stripped his face of any reassurance.

"You will make my usual," Mark offered with permissive nod of his head toward the espresso machine. His smile widened as he watched her stumble as she awkwardly avoided turning her back. Haltingly, Lana set about preparing the cup. The tapping of the grinder and gurgling of the steamer seemed to hang in the molasses-thick tension of the tiny coffee-house.

When the foam was sitting beautifully over the rim and the sleeve was tugged firm up the sides of the cup, Lana stared long into the coffee before trying to hand it over. Mark relished her affected posture, knowing it was his domination pushing her to the edge of awkward.

"And a dash of nutmeg. I'm feeling festive."

Lana did a double-take, but set the coffee down on the counter. Such paraphernalia was by the door, on the other side of the café. It was why he'd giving the order – he wanted to watch her serve him with every step. He tracked her eyes as darted between the table of condiments on the other side of the room and Mark's face, willing her to see his intention. He smacked on the knowledge that she knew that he knew that he owned her.

But instead of staggering her way from behind the counter, Lana took two steps to her left, knelt and straightened up with a large container of grated nutmeg – the one used to refill the small container by the door. Spooning some into a fine sieve, she sprinkled the nutmeg over Mark's cup before pushing it in his direction.

"Anything else, sir?"

Hot fury ignited in Mark's veins. This was not how it was supposed to go! This is not what he wanted! The domination erupted in wild fire, sending tendrils of flame to dance in feverish anger over his body. How dare she? This was his day, his time. He was a Dom, complete and different for the first time – but then she brought him back to insignificance. No, he would not be dismissed. Not now, not with his domination rearing to be noticed. It consumed him, owning every inch of his heated body.

Before he knew it, the cup of coffee was in his hand. A cry. A gasp of pain. The domination settled, softening the haze over his eyes. Blinking to clear them, Mark shuddered and let the empty cup fall from his palm. Tripping over his feet, Mark backed from the sight of the soaked, burned Switch and fled.

* * *

Mark stumbled on uneven pavement and scrapped his hand against rough brick. The world spun and shrieked, a wailing siren deafening him to the sounds of traffic. Twisting, he braced himself and slowly blinked, willing into focus the coarse red pumice of the brick. Suddenly, his body coiled and bile gushed onto the pavement as his stomach wrung itself dry. Acid burned through his throat and tickled his nose as he coughed and sneezed, purging his sense of horror. The smell of vomit hit his nostrils, drenching him in dirt, pollution, grime, disgust. As the spasms eased, his head grew heavy, thought fleeing and body begging to collapse. Pushing himself off the wall, Mark grabbed onto his head for balance. In drunken stupor, Mark crossed the alley before his knees buckled and he tumbled to the ground.

Here. Yes, here he was solid. It was better – to sit. Much better. And smooth. The pavement. Smooth, with only _ouch_ sharp pebbles. And the brick. That was sharp too. Mark frowned.

He burned her.

He burned a Switch. Something was wrong. Completely, terribly wrong. Tears welled in his eyes and helplessly spilled over his lids. Clutching at his coat, Mark curled him and sniffled into his collar. What was happening? What was happening to him?

Shaking and scared, Mark wished his mom were here. They weren't close, and she always gave dumb advice, but she gave the warmest hugs. He wished he could have one now. God, he was tired. The thought reminded him of home. The sub!

The sub! The boy upstairs, recovering in Lea's bedroom. Fumbling to find the pocket of his coat, Mark's shacking fingers grasped onto his phone. Dialing Lea's number, Mark took a steadying breath and listened to the beeps.

* * *

The day drifted by in sleepy silence. Occasionally, the furnace would grumble before the vents would wheeze and warm air sailed into the room. Low hanging clouds dispersed all light, which made it hard to gauge the passing of time – but there was no need for such frivolity; not in a room where the only activity was letting cups of tea grow cold while getting lost inside a book. The boy slept deeply and seemed untroubled, only the occasional cough rousing him from sleep. His heavy lids would flutter until a long deep breath would pull him down again.

Lea left his side every few hours, to stretch her legs and crack her back. Sometime in the afternoon, Laura returned from her classes, hesitantly knocking on the door before slipping inside.

"How is he?"

Her eyes were nervous, but her voice was steady – Lea knew how deeply Laura felt for the boy; there was a depth of compassion that only a sub could give another.

"He will be well. He's on his way." Motioning the sub into the room, Lea set her novel to the side. "We will do our best by him."

"Actually," Laura started picking at her sleeve, "I was thinking of going to the store. To get some things – for him I mean. I'm sure he'd like his own pajamas, and subs like that don't usually get underwear and socks. So, I could get him some. At the store."

Laura's throat worked and Lea watched her swallow the temptation to make that into a question. It frequently prickled Lea's domination when Laura seemed so vulnerable and unsure, made her wonder what stripped the sub of confidence and self-assurance. But it was not her job to find solutions; as her therapist frequently reminded her, sometimes the kindest form of domination is letting go.

"That's a fantastic idea. Thanks for bringing it up" Lea responded, soaking every word in gratitude and warmth. "We'll split the cost, but I really appreciate your foresight. And while you're going, could you get him slippers? Probably medium or something around that. And shoes. It doesn't really matter if those fit, just guess the size for now and we'll get him new ones. It's just that - I want him to know that he can walk here. I don't want him crawling ever again."

Both women's gazes darkened at the thought, but they resurfaced quickly and exchanged small smiles before Laura backed out of the room with once last glance at the heap of blankets on the bed. Again the house grew quiet and heavy. But in a short while, Lea's attention snapped to the buzzing phone as it awkwardly danced with each vibration across her bedside table. Quickly swiping it off the wood and glancing to the resting boy, Lea read the caller ID and tipped-toed out of the room.

"Mark? So glad you called."

"Lea?" the break in voice was easily mistaken for a connection crackle.

"Yeah, hi. What time are you coming home? We need to decide what to do about dinner – the fridge is bursting at the seams, but the whole house is exhausted. Maybe we should get take-out. Would you be able to pick it up when you start heading home?"

Mark swallowed around a clump of anxiety. "Well, I was thinking about going to Devon's place. You know, give the boy some space." He paused, but couldn't handle the silence. "James mentioned you thinking

something along the same lines" he started again, far more defensively than he intended "-take some time before introducing him to a male Dom."

"Yes," Lea agreed, but he could hear the frown in her voice. "But that doesn't mean exiling you from the house. There are other people here, people who need you. It would be nice to have another Dom in the house, not for him, but for the others."

For a moment, the connection fell into an echoing silence interrupted by soft puffs of air.

"Is everything alright?" now, Lea's voice was steeped in suspicion.

"Yes! Why would it not be alright? Everything's fine. Just this morning James tells me its best for me to stay out of the way, and now I'm indispensable. Fine, I'll be there around six. And yes, I'll pick up some take out on way. See, just fine."

Leaning into the wall for support, Lea took a deep breath and softened her tone. She should have realized Mark would've been hurt – the Dom was very aware of his tenuous hold over his domination; hearing other gossip about it, imply that he shouldn't be trusted around an abused sub – that must have been hard.

"Mark, you know you are! Indispensable I mean. You are a Dom – you bring balance and safety to this house. Please come home. It would mean a lot to me."

Mark looked across the alley, where he'd thrown up after burning a Switch, after dominating her, after violating her. Was he safe? Could he bring safety? Maybe this was his chance to do something right. He wasn't a monster after all – he just lost control. And he'd make sure it didn't happen again.

His right hand slipped into his pocket and fingered the orange bottle of pills.

"Sure. I'll be there soon."

* * *

Around 4pm, the house started swaying to a new beat. Like an eager host waiting for the arrival of its guests, it stretched and yawned, perking up with the smells of Lea's fifth coffee, dusted off its rust and age. Every freshly turned light swept freshness into very crevice. By 5pm, when James, Jordan, and Laura stepped over the threshold, no trace of the old, arthritic, groaning, grumbling house remained, overwhelmed by the sheer vigor and vitality of its inhabitants. Once again, the windows burst with light and lamps shuddered at the stampede of gluttons rushing toward the kitchen for snacks. Nothing was more ravenous than a grad student.

With a soft groan, Blaine turned onto his side and nuzzled the soft pillow under his cheek. Sensation trickled into his consciousness, as if by osmosis permeating past his dreams and slowly filling him with wakefulness. Before, awakening came in burst, sharp, stinging and intrusive, inescapable and harsh; now, awakening dawned so slowly, he didn't recognize it until his eyes fluttered and he saw light.

Much like before, the windows reflect the orange glow of the room before sinking into a black night. To his left, a cup stood, half-full but long-forgotten, beside a haphazardly placed chair. Unlike before, Lea occupied it.

"Good morning," she greeted with a smile, "or good night, I should say. But that would be confusing – seeing as you just woke up."

Still drowsy and slow in thought, Blaine wobbled on weak arms until he managed to push himself up the headboard. Too quickly for him to panic, Lea was at his side and straightening pillows so he'd have a more comfortable perch.

"How are you feeling? The medication you're taking makes people drowsy, can give you nausea and an upset stomach. Unfortunately, pneumonia's worse, so you gotta keep taking it."

He liked her babbling. It was nice to hear a happy voice.

"I-i-" his voice scrapped against his swollen throat, sanding his words into a croak. Instantaneously, Lea was handing him a cup, ceramic warm and brimming with golden liquid. Too drowsy to second guess, Blaine took a sip, and then another, and another, losing himself in the sweet, stinging, unearthly quality of the drink. It was so – it tasted like – well, it tasted unlike anything he's had before. Steam gently coiled from the rim, bathing him in its perfume.

"Just some honey, lemon, and ginger. Let me know if it's too strong – but I figured it couldn't hurt. We'll try getting some more food into you, with your next dose. Dinner should be here any minute."

Blaine hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until they snapped open; the cup in his hands was nearly drained dry. No! Blaine froze, muscles tensing as his thoughts raced; was he supposed to drink it? Was he meant to take a sip? Was he allowed to finish? And what was the punishment for doing wrong? Burying his face deeper in the mug, Blaine lifted his gaze just far enough to catch her eyes; hurt always started with the eyes, as if intent for violence exploded from behind the iris. But her eyes were soft, dancing gently in the dispersed light of the bedroom. He knew they were the eyes of a Dom (they didn't have the habit of dropping to the floor and hiding behind their lids), yet they didn't carry the razor-sharp glint of twisted pleasure at the sight of something hurt and broken the way ihis/i did. Blaine shuddered.

Refocusing on the drink in his hand and forcing his muscles to unclench, Blaine ran his tongue over his lips to pick up every trace of sweetness. It was easy to lose himself in the prickly, all consuming, novelty of its flavor.

"Thank you." He mumbled, voice softened by the honey.

"You're welcome." Lea responded, resisting the urge to reinforce her words with touch; she itched to lay her hand over his palm, squeeze his arm and run her hand through his curls before pulling him into a hug. Instead, she settled for taking a deep breath, giving him a soft smile, and climbing onto her feet.

"Well, enough lolling around – there's dinner to be had! You just sit and enjoy that, I'll check on how your chicken-noodle's coming along."

When her hand touched the door-nob, she faltered and turned with a soft snort. "This is all so backwards." Bracing herself against the doorframe, Lea turned toward the room and shared a lopsided smirk with the boy on the bed. The boy she'd bathed, and fed, and cleaned, the boy who occupied her bed and slept in her pajamas. Who lived with her since Tuesday night and was already a part of all their lives. The boy.

"This may be an odd question, seeing as you're in my bed and all, but…" again, she stumbled over her words, finding the timing so deeply odd after growing so close to this child and yet not even knowing – "what's your name?"

Blaine paled. He shuddered. Brows knotted as his eyes dimmed and his face twisted into a deep, pained grimace. The metamorphosis consumed him as he lost grasp of the present and sank into his past.

"He called me whore."

* * *

_It was cold. But then again, it always was. Whore knew that it was cold because every once in a while he'd get a burning – Master's thick hands pressing his palm to the hissing, smoking grates of stove burners. They were hot. Whore was cold. Once, when whore lived in the basement while his cage was in repair (its hinges buckling under the force of Master's kicks), he was stupid enough to crawl out of his corner toward a water heater on the other side. Greedy for the thick, humid warmth radiating from the leaking, shaking, rusting thing, whore couldn't stop, kept crawling closer and closer, until his shaking palms hovered right over the surface. Its warmth tickled his cheek, reminding him of something from a dream, until his pressed close, closer – he didn't notice, couldn't tell, that his palms were burning until he felt the smell of burning flesh. Then, he was warm._

_It hurt. But then again, it always hurt. Whore knew it hurt because every once in a while, it would hurt more. Most moments of his days passed in blissful ignorance, complete and total numbness. Every moment would be just like the last, with healing scars and swollen bruises, until he couldn't tell healing flesh from wounds. The pain drugged him; it gave him frame of reference. But mostly, he'd forget about it. Master never let him forget for long._

_His Master liked the whippings best. Whore knew he did because they came the rarest and would last the most. A single whipping could last for hours, as sun would set and bleed on the horizon while whore would bleed over his back. At first, whore thought Master liked the color –it was the only color in his world (blood red, world grey). But now, he thought the Master liked the sound. Each whipping was distinct and different, a symphony of cracks and screams. With Master, conductor of each note._

_After the whippings, whore woke up still chained. Whippings exhausted Master – he never bothered to unlock the chains. Of course, that interfered with whore's primary duties – caring for Master, and he'd be routinely punished for falling asleep still tied to hooks. The true punishment came when Master released the locks and let whore crumble to the ground. As whore would crawl, dizzy and unsteady, the crusting blood caking his back would crack and pop, breach the tentative seal between his broken skin._

_Some days, whore was alone. Those days, whore liked the best. Each morning, he'd crawl to the kitchen, open the fridge and pull some eggs, bacon, sausage, and milk. Within ten minutes, Master's breakfast would be steaming on its pate and whore could crawl to his corner and reach into his feeder for a cup of dry kernels. They smelled quite odd, were hard to chew, and came in giant packages with pictures of dogs over the front. Whore knew that because one day he was washing his stains out of the rug when Master refilled his feeder – whore wondered whether he was eating dog, but at the end of the day what did it matter; at least he ate. The ritual would repeat at lunch and dinner, with whore preparing a meal and letting it cool in Master's absence. He could always count the days of his peace by the number of uneaten plates on the kitchen counter._

_Whore didn't know how long he'd lived there, although he knew he had a different life before; he didn't know any one besides his Master, though in his sleep he would hear voices of people he never met; he didn't know the taste of food, although sometimes he'd wake with the scent of buttermilk scones teasing his nose. Whore didn't know what changed, but something shifted._

_Never before had he seen a man's cock. But when he did, he gagged on it. Thick fingers twisted in his hair and yanked him forward until the cock bumped into the little bell behind his tongue, that little dangly piece of flesh that marked the entrance into his throat. Coarse, unwashed hair trapped the scent of must and mildew as whore tried to swallow the throbbing meat inside his mouth. His Master never used him __like this before, but tonight was different. Tonight, whore wobbled on his knees as Master fucked his skull, chocking him every couple of trusts before letting the bile and slobber run down whore's face. Whore did not know, sitting in his vomit and his Master's cum, but that day, he celebrated his sixteenth birthday._

_After that day, life became different. Now, it was full of cock and sweat and slippery slickness that wouldn't wash out of his hair and the smell of cum and spit and bile and tears. Something was different; something was being pulled out of him, extracted by slowly tugging hooks. Whore knew that this time, he would never heal, there'd be no scar and no recovery. One night, as he lay sucking on his thumb, he felt a word float up into his mind. Death. He smiled and let his eyes drift shut. Behind his lids danced a whole world – it was full of color and sound, a canvas of smells and textures. It was so beautiful. Curling tighter into his favorite corner of the cage, whore hoped that death was warm._

_But death reminded a fantasy, a dream to return to every night and tug over his eyes as he would tug a blanket over his shivering body. It was long after Master's finger dug in whore's blood-wet holes, his cock growing tired of swimming in whore's slobber, long after Master added a tag to whore's electric collar, rechristening his whore into "cum-dump" for their sessions, and long after whore thought he lost himself, that he found it. Technically, _it_ was never lost. It just wasn't remembered._

_Blaine._

_Not whore. Blaine._

_That was his name. Whore heard it while leaking cum and blood, safe in his cage and lost in sleep. At first, he didn't recognize the sound, letting the music of it roll over and through him. But then, he knew. And just like that, he could never unknow. His name was Blaine. He had a name. A body. A mind. These were his own, and no Master owned that. When Blaine woke up, he had two arms, two legs, and matted hair. He had his eyes, and owned the bruises on his body. He occupied his space – with every inhale, he claimed some air, and with every movement, he sent a signal to his muscles. Like waking from the longest sleep, Blaine marveled at the novelty of his intention – if he so chose, he could…sit, stand; laugh, cry; touch his nose and close his eyes. Everything felt brand new. When the clock set by eight years of servitude chimed in his head that it was time to prepare Master's breakfast, Blaine opened the lock of his cage, crawled to the nearest wall and hitched himself onto his feet. Bracing against the wall and dragging each foot in front of the other, Blaine made his way into the hall, past Master's study and past his bedroom, until his feet caught on the ledge of the kitchen threshold. Tripping over his untrained legs, Blaine crossed the room and fell to his knees by the only door he knew led to the outside world. His heart raced as his palm ran over the rubber flap separating him from everything he didn't know._

_As soon as he'd run, the shock collar would freeze him in his tracks. Master had tested it on whore before finalizing the settings, so Blaine knew what was in store. But if he passed it, if he ran far out of range, ran fast and forever, death would wait from him on the other side._

_It was his last chance. Last thing that he could do as Blaine before he perished forever as whore. With one last breath, Blaine pushed through the flap and ran._

* * *

The next part is already in production - based on my (historically wrong) predictions, it should be up by the end of the week, though if you want to read the next part sooner, check it out on the GKM where I post in shorter, more frequent bursts.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR REVIEWS! You are magical, beautiful people who are infinitely patient and gracious.


	7. Chapter 7

It's shorter, but at least I updated faster? I am really excited for this update - there were so many things that I wanted to get to that are introduced in this chapter. And guess whose name comes up? Guess?

Don't own Glee. At all.

* * *

_Shhhhhh_

_Shhhhhhhhhh_

_Shhhh_

_Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh_

Blaine surfaced to the sound of a peaceful sea. He rocked on its waves as it hushed and shushed in his ears. The sand was warm, and the sea was calm. The sea embraced him, pulling him tighter into her arms, rocking him to the beat of the crashing waves. Every now and then, the sea would press close, whispering "Good boy, what a good boy. It's all right now. It's okay. You're okay – such a good boy…" before dissolving into the endless static of _ShhhhhhShhhhhhhhhhhhhhhShhhh h_….

And the sea was soft. But it wasn't wet. And the sea rocked him, but it didn't splash. The sea was pressing light kisses into his hair and tugging him deeper into the crook of her neck, letting him disappear into her embrace.

Blinking against Lea's collarbone, Blaine fisted the down blanket that was wrapped 'round his sides, pressed the heels of his feet into the mattress and fought his way back to the present. He took a shuddering breath and pulled away far enough to take in the bed, the room, the light, the smell of lemon and ginger still hanging in the air. He was here. He was Blaine. Not whore, not there – here, now.

He choked.

"Sorr-"

"Shhhhhh, Hush." Lea interrupted him before he could stutter out the word. "You've done nothing wrong." Her voice softened as she ran a fluttering hand over Blaine's cheek. "You're such a good boy. Such a precious, beautiful boy."

Tears welled in Blaine's eyes as the words poured over him in a tidal wave of relief. Foreign and new, they bathed him in a warmth he didn't know before. Didn't know he craved before. Starvation is easy, until the first taste. You forget the hunger, forget the pain, until the first bite, the reminder that something is _wrong_, and you're gone. The monstrous, gnawing emptiness churns and roars at the scent of the thing you so crave, clawing its way from your gut, scratching your heart and tearing your throat. He burned. He ignited.

The strings holding Blaine taut gave out and he collapsed into Lea's arms in broken sobs, choking and shaking under the enormity of his deliverance. In spasms that knotted his muscles, in jerks that tore through his spine, and sobs that clenched at his heart, Blaine transformed. It ripped him apart, screeching and screaming. His every cell felt gutted, scrummed raw, wringing him dry and shredding his mind. Not a whore! Not a whore! Never again! He would die. He will die, but never again.

"Sweetheart!"

Through the haze, Blaine heard his own screams. It felt like never before. Tears were for bedtime. They'd stream down his face as he'd curl in his cage, tuck his thumb into his mouth, and will the wounds on his back to heal. They were slow, rolling one by one past his lids, occasionally getting caught on the rim and bathing his view in glimmering moonlight. This was different. This was agony.

"Sweetheart, just breathe. I need you to breathe."

Hitching coughs caught in his throat. His chest collapsed as if his ribs had turned in. Suffocating, Blaine tried to draw air, but seized in pain with his heart's tight contractions.

"Breathe…follow my breath."

Breath. And breath, And breath. Lea's ribs expanded and fell, guiding Blaine and slowing him down. The thumping of panic fell into cadence with her utter peace, giving him time to draw air, fill his lungs, feed his heart, slow his mind. It unclenched; he unclenched. Whatever had broken free now was loose. Dizzy and spinning, Blaine curled weak fingers into the weave of Lea's robe, pressed close, and whispered, "Please, don't let go."

* * *

"I didn't know my own name." Blaine started without looking up. A cup of clear broth, warm and steaming, rested in the palm of his hand.

He'd slept for no more than ten minutes, collapsing into Lea's arms before she tipped him into a nest of pillows. The housemates had gathered in the doorway before cautiously tip-toeing their way in, Laura cradling a bowl of soup while James carried a bag of purchases. The walls echoed the boy's cries as they silently slid to the floor next to the bed, scared and shaken, but resolved to be there when he woke up.

As if underwater, they all sank into their thoughts, drowning in the vision of this boy shattering before their eyes. Every few seconds, they would glance back up to the bed as if seeking reassurance that he was still here and whole.

Before the soup had a chance to fully cool, his eyes fluttered open and he woke with a soft cough. His hands came up to rub at his cheeks, pulled tight by drying tears. His fingers shook as he rubbed at his eyes, animated by the adrenaline still rattling his body. He accepted the bowl of soup when Lea placed it in his hands, took a long, shaky breath and began to speak.

"I didn't know my own name. I don't think I knew who I was, or that I was anybody. It was like life started and ended with each day when I woke in my cage and returned to my corner." He paused, words coming slowly, as if he were thinking it for the first time – and in many ways, he was. "It felt like…no, that not right. It didn't feel like anything. Like static. Sometimes the pain and the cold and the fear would get louder, but soon they'd get drowned in new pain. Until it all just dissolved, and I dissolved right into it. There was nothing beyond, nothing to hold, just an endless sameness.

"But I know that's not right. Cause I knew, knew that I _was_ somebody sometime. And once you are somebody, you're somebody always. And that means that even when I was whore, I was somebody too. And that's why I can't give it to you." His eyes were scared when they met Lea's gaze, but they pleaded to be understood. "I can't give you my name. Because it's **_me_**, and that's all I have now."

A stray tear glistened on the rim of his eyelid, swelling and quivering until it rolled down his cheek. His body wanted to compress, nerves prickling his senses, tugging at his limbs. Naturally, instinctively, his body yearned to curl tight and small, invisible and inconsequential, until he and all the pain in him were nothing but a pinprick. But he didn't. That's what whore would have done, and so Blaine didn't. Instead, his limbs jolted and twisted, indecisive, unsure, caught in a place where he didn't belong and did not understand. He knew pain and darkness, he knew cold and dread, he accepted death and waited for silence – but this, warmth and light…they stabbed him with heartache. They disarmed him, too new and too bright.

"Please," he whimpered, "I can't. If I give you my name-" Blaine choked.

A hand fell on his shoulder, heavy and sure. Someone's palm slid against his, twining their fingers.

"You know," James said, "there are some things, I figure, that you can't take or give. They can only be shared. And maybe, we just haven't earned it yet."

"You don't have to give us anything. Ever." Jordan stated with confidence. "You don't owe us a thing."

James smirked and gave Blaine a wink before plopping into the armchair by the bed, "Just be ready for lots of 'sweethearts' and 'honeys' – Lea has a little pet-name addiction."

Gasping at the insult, Lea began to defend herself over the snickers going around the room, "I just have a trouble remembering names! Come on! I am allowed one little weakness. Oh, shut up!" but the deep blush over her cheeks and the big smile on her face significantly softened her delivery.

"Anyways…." Jordan redirected the conversation, "can we get to the present-giving? I want it to be early-Christmas already!"

Bouncing on the balls of her feet and molding her face into the perfect pleading expression, Jordan was irresistible. In seconds, the bag of goodies that James had brought in was in her hands and on its way to the bed.

"It's not much," Laura started shyly, "just some things I thought you'd need around the house. I wasn't sure about sizes and things, but once you're ready, I figured you'd replace most of it anyway. But…it's a start."

Her voice drifted at the end, hanging in suspense while Blaine picked at the corners of a shopping bag.

"You…these- for me?"

At Laura's nod, Blaine ducked his head and nervously reached into the bag. But his hand stalled before it even passed the rim. His fingers twitched as he tried to move forward, but he couldn't. Steeling himself, he pushed on, but his body betrayed his fear in a nervous whimper. The gaping black bag, the unknown hidden within, the sense of dread of taking something that wasn't his own paralyzed him. As much as he wanted to move, he couldn't overcome the possibility of punishment. But would they punish anyways? For the ingratitude? For the hesitation? Scared eyes jumped from the cavern of the bag's gaping rim toward Lea, whether to read her intention or plead for help, she couldn't tell.

"Here," slowly, she inched forward her hand settled over the bag and tipped it over. Socks tumbled out first. Followed by a set of flannel pajamas, several undershirts, and a pair of gloves. As the housemates took to emptying the bags, the bed around Blaine started filling up with sweatpants and sweatshirts, long-sleeved underthings, a sweater, more socks, slippers, a robe, a toothbrush and comb, a hat with a scarf and a warm set of gloves, one pair of shoes, a pair of red rain-boots, a finally, a large pack of white boxer-briefs.

The blush on Blaine's face warmed the whole room.

"I-I…this…" his fingers levitated over the items, dancing along the surface of his possessions in wonderstruck reverence. Growing heavy, they tangled in the flannel and stroked over the woven woof over the hat. "This is…I don't- mine?"

"Yeah," Lea laughed, "all yours."

Color surrounded him, from the vibrant argyle of his new socks to the subtle checkers of his fuzzy slippers to the fire-hydrant red of his new boots. The rubber, the cotton, the wool and the flannel were a playground of textures. As his fingers glided on the silky surface of his robe - _his _robe, **_his_** robe! Blaine's chest expanded with a balloon that pressed on his chest and squeezed his heart. It popped to the surface with an enormous smile that he buried in the fuzzy softness of his flannel top and released in a joyous laugh.

"Thank you", he whispered with a grin.

* * *

"Actually," she was distracted putting away wrapping tissue and the word nearly disappeared in the crinkle of plastic bags, "there is one more thing we should talk about before hitting the hay."

Lea abandoned a cloud of tissues near the trash can before making her way back to the bed. Everyone in the room was nursing a steaming cup of hot chocolate and enjoying the hazy stupor of a long, emotional, but ultimately happy night. Jordan announced that there's no reason it can't be Christmas on November 29th and dug up Christmas lights out of the basement, winding them on the curtail rail along the window. The darkness outside and the emotional exhaustion on the inside created the illusion that it was far later than it truly was, the chocolate and twinkling lights lulling the inhabitants of #127 into a drowsy calm.

When she resumed her perch on the bed, Lea continued. "You okay to talk a little longer, or are you too tired?"

It was hard looking at the boy without experiencing the sharpest of joys. He was bundled in a pair of light blue pajamas, his navy blue robe, a pair of fuchsia pink and purple socks, his grey wool scarf and a beanie. He looked like a five-year old on Christmas morning, sipping on his hot chocolate and periodically sinking his hands into the pockets of his robe, smiling with pride at his new possessions.

"I'm alright," he mumbled before taking another long inhale of the steaming chocolate.

"There's one thing that's yours," Lea started with caution, "and no one, ino one/i can take away from you. But we need to know it. We need to know it so we can keep you safe, so you can feel safe with us here. Sweetheart, we need to know your safeword."

The following silence immediately prickled at her nerves. "We won't push it. I'm not asking because anyone here would ever ask you to do anything that would make you safeword. It's just…a precaution. A safety barrier. I want you to feel safe here, but with Switches and Doms in the house…sometimes, suggestions become orders, and I just want you to be able to say 'no'. Not because we'll ask, but…I want you to be able to safeword anything. Any offer, any invitation, any request."

The blank look on Blaine's face slowly sank into deep confusion. Lea cocked her head, desperately searching for the missing link.

"Sweetheart?" She prompted, "Are you alright with that?"

Blaine blushed, gaze dropping down to his hands as they twisted in the drawstring of his robe. When his voice rose from the silence, it was drenched in hesitation. "I'm….I'm sorry. But I….what's? What is it? A safeword."

Laura gasped. James' hand seized her wrist when it flew to her mouth and, for a moment, Lea's face darkened with fury before she hid it in a quick duck of her head. She cleared her throat and elaborated, "A safeword is a trigger. It's the mechanism by which subs resists domination. It would be something you were taught as a boy. A way to concentrate your energy and push out foreign control – a word, a gesture. Does something come to mind?"

The boy's eyebrows furrowed as he seemed to wrack his mind. As the silence lengthened, Lea noticed the usual signs of his distress pick up – twitching fingers, hunching shoulders as he tried to sink deeper into his pillows and away from their expectant gaze.

"It's alright. It's okay," she jumped in to reassure him. "Just one of those things we'll have to work on ourselves."

Someone behind them chocked, but before they could intervene, Lea asserted, "We'll figure it all out. Now why don't you finish your soup, I'll be right back with your meds."

When Lea stood to go, his voice caught her.

"Umm..I just," he paused, "thank you. And…I was thinking. Maybe- maybe you could call me 'B'?"

He blushed to his roots, the deep red stain spreading across his cheeks as he ducked down in embarrassment and started playing with his robe.

Lea urged her face into a smile even as her heart clenched painfully. "Of course, B. Of course, sweetheart. You're such a good boy – thank you. Let me just…I'll be right back."

Controlling her pace, she left the room in even footsteps. As soon as the door closed behind her, Lea collapsed against the wall. Digging her fingertips into her thigh, she tried to regain focus. Her vision swam in red anger and tears – she felt heated and wild. The kid had no safeword. No way to claim his will, to grant consent. No way to act on his own behalf. And there were only two people in the world who could have withheld it from him. His parents.

Safewording didn't come naturally to subs. It was a struggle to assert control when every cell in your body screamed to submit. To safeword required a sub to surface from the depth of their instinct and push out invading domination. The hardest part wasn't overpowering the Dom, but overpowering yourself, your own wants and your own urges. That's why it was taught at an early age, when subs hadn't yet become entirely accustomed to submission, when the notion of saying "no" wasn't beyond their imagination. Dominant parents would introduce their kids to low levels of domination with instructions to repel it – concentrating their energy in a word or a gesture. Technically, neither was truly necessary; the force of a safeword didn't reside in the utterance or the motion, but in the sub themselves. But it helped, tugging on the word or signal like a rubber band, building resistance until it was taunt and ready to snap, pushing out the domination from the child's consciousness.

But this boy, this child, never learned to do that. And yet, the marking on his right arm signified he'd been in a Claim. Someone used him. Someone one abused him. He'd been raped.

The bedroom door creaked open and whipped Lea out of her thoughts. It was James. Warily, they both made their way down the stairs and into the kitchen, leaning heavily on the counter for support.

"Don't do it." James' voice was sure. "I know you – I know you want to fix this. But…don't call him."

Lea stayed silent. Nothing she could say would reassure James now.

"You've worked so hard to break ties, to start fresh. If you call him now, it will all be wasted. Both of you'd be right back where you started. And there's no guarantee he would help, _could_ help." The silence dragged on. Making one final attempt at persuasion, James asked, "Even if you are okay with making this decision for yourself, are you alright with making this decision for him?"

Concentrating on the intersection of tiles on the floor, Lea responded in monotone, "Hmmmm….that was silly. His meds were upstairs all along. Do you mind going up there? He needs to take his pills before he digests all the soup. You know, for the nausea."

Suspended, the moment stretched in loud silence while neither moved. Their stances, relaxed and resting against the kitchen counters, were too stiff and too static; a mask of tranquility belaying the intention of battle. The building, buzzing energy heaved and grew before collapsing as James dropped his head and stepped forward.

"I hope you know what you're doing. I really hope you don't fuck this up."

With that, Lea was left alone. For a moment, she shut her eyes and enjoyed the reprieve. But now that she knew what to do, a new urgency tugged at her mind. Her hand slipped into her pocket and retrieved her phone. She'd deleted his number some months ago, but she knew it by heart. While her fingers danced across the screen, the patio door opened with a swoosh and she stepped out into the night. By the time the dial tone gave its first beep, the door closed behind her and she was out in the yard where it all started.

"Hello? Lea?"

_"Hi."_

* * *

"What's wrong?"

A laugh.

Gently, _"Nothing's wrong. Not like that at least."_

"Alright." A pause. "But something is wrong, isn't it?"

_"It's like you can't help yourself."_

"I can't! You know what it's like. Sorry, but it's just…we haven't talked in so long. I feel flooded. Like all the domination of the past few months just broke through a dam. Tell me what's wrong."

_"We took in a runaway. An abused sub."_

"What does that mean - took in?" A moment's silence and then distressed, "You claimed a sub?"

_"No! Of course not! Don't be an idiot."_

"Ok…so, you took them in? Like, gave them shelter?"

_"Yes."_

"You know that's illegal."

_"Yes. I know."_

"Alright. Are they alright? Do you need me to-"

_"He's going to be okay. He's not alright, not by a long shot. The kid's been beaten, starved, abused – you should see the bruises on his body. His wrists, his knees…and the cuts. He was whipped. Tortured. But, he's with us now."_

Silence.

"Lea…I- this, what you're doing…it's enormous, and I lov- I respect you all the more for it, but…are you sure this is good for you? Not for him, or for the house, but for you?"

_"Yes. It is."_

"Okay then. Okay. What can I do? What can I do to help?"

_"He has no safeword."_

Silence.

"What?"

_"No safeword. He had no clue what it was when I mentioned it. How is that possible? How the fuck is that even possible? He can't be younger that fourteen, but…he couldn't understand what I was saying! Where are his parents? Where is that monster who put those bruises around his wrists and those whip-marks on his back? He's a boy! He was Claimed! How could this have happened?!"_

"Lea, pet…shhh-shhhhhhh….you're alright. It's going to be alright. He's with you now, and he's safe. Now, I'm going to ask some questions, and before you answer each one, I want you to take a deep breath – okay?"

A nod._ "Yes, I can do that."_

"How do you know he was Claimed?"

A deep inhale, exhale,_ "He has a marking pin. On his right arm, you can see the healed scar."_

"Do you know anything about him? About his Dom? About his family?"

A deep inhale, exhale, _"He barely knows himself. We found him on Tuesday night – Mark brought him in. The kid was dying in our backyard. He was freezing, but we warmed him up, gave him a bed and some time to rest. He has pneumonia now and recovering from frostbite. And the starvation. We're taking it slow. But I asked him his name, and he just…he couldn't give it. It was him, his whole identity. He asked me to call him B. God, I just. I want to know what happened, I want to know who did this. I want to kill them. I want to rip them apart. I want to scream – because this is unfair! And it's so wrong. You should see him – he is a precious, beautiful boy. So broken, but so sweet. He has these eyes, and when he looks at you, it's like he puts his soul into your hands. How could they hurt him? Who could destroy him?"_

"Shhhh-pet. Sweetheart, I need you to breathe. Focus on me. I know how much you're hurting right now, and I promise, it's going to be okay. Just breathe for a second."

Several long pulls of cool, crisp air. _"Alright. I'm alright now."_

"Good. You're a very good girl. Are you ready to go on?"

_"Yes. The reason I called…can you enter a Claim without a safeword?"_

"No. Not officially. Not legally. When you sign the Claiming Document, the pair has to demonstrate the safeword and it's recorded from public records. There's no way to really bypass it – there'd be too many witnesses."

_"But he has the marking pin."_

"Well, those you can get on the black market. The sub trade needs to be able to sell subs and allow the purchasing Doms and Switches the illusion of legality. Most subs would be useless if you'd need to hide them away, so marking pins are sold so the assholes who purchase their subs can bring them out in public. Honestly, if we wanted to really crack down on the illegal sales of subs, we'd need to start with keeping closer tabs on our marking pins – it would void eighty percent of sales."

_"So it's possible that he was sold? Not Claimed?"_

"It seems likely."

_"But then he's not a runaway? No laws broken for escaping a Claim if there is no legal Claim to being with, right?"_

"Yes, but you have to prove there's no Claim. If he has a marking pin, any cop would just through him and all of you in jail and probably return him to his Dom before you could say the word 'lawyer'."

_"That's why I called you. Do you have access to the public records? The ones that register subs, Claims, and safewords?"_

"Not exactly. For privacy reasons, the records are available to anyone who has a legitimate reason to request access. With my job, I wouldn't have to go through red-tape, but I still need a valid reason to request them in the first place."

_"I need you to find him. I need you to find his name, find his parents, and find that piece of shit who claimed him. He's about five foot-eight, dark curly hair, bright brown eyes. I think the Dom who claimed him is from somewhere around here – the boy had no shoes when we found him, and I doubt he could get far in his state. I didn't see any distractive features apart from a birthmark on his back. It sits just over his shoulder. And I think his name starts with a 'B'. Please, find him."_

"I will do everything I can. There's a new intern here, Kurt something. He's here for research before his first year in law school. I may not have a legitimate reason to request those files, but he does. He's researching the population trends in sub, Switch, and Dom communities."

_"You'll do it?"_

"Of course I will. Just.." pencil scratches across thick paper, "give me a couple of days. Are you going to be alright?"

_"Of course I will."_

"Alright pet. Stay strong. I love you."

Quiet.

_"Love you too." _

* * *

Your reviews would mean the world to me. I am so anxious about this chapter...let me know what you thought! As always, thank you for all the story alerts and favorites - they warm my heart :)


	8. Chapter 8

Hi everyone! I am very excited to introduce the new chapter - as always, your reviews make my day. Thank you for all the new likes and follows :) Hope you enjoy!

* * *

The weekend drifted slowly through Number 127. The weather had turned clear and sunny, crisp and biting like only cloudless winter's days can be. In the house, everyone interpreted the sunlit chill as the perfect excuse to spend two days bundled in layers of pajamas, socks and blankets, while warming their hands on steaming mugs of hot chocolate or cider. With so many people in the house, the kitchen was in constant danger of imploding; every few seconds, someone would need to grab a snack or check on the oven, bumping into drawers and open cupboards. The scent of gingerbread and clove the washed the first floor of the home in the spirit of Christmas.

Upstairs, Blaine woke to the steady beat of a bustling house. When his eyes fluttered open, he wasn't startled by the scene of the bright-lit room, the cluttered bedside table, heaving under cups and candles, the tilted armchair and the draped blankets. Even the warm, gentle caress of his downy pillow didn't burn with its unexpected softness. He turned to his right and his lips twitched into a smile at the sight of the sunbathed street. The upturn of his lips crinkled his eyes. Was this home? He took a deep breath, washing his chest with the scent of earl grey and heating. He never thought he'd have the chance for any of this to feel right, and now, in mere days, what was unimaginable became familiar. The bright reflection of the winter sun off neighboring homes swam in his vision as a single tear welled in his eyes.

"Rise and shine!"

Lea's voice drifted from the hallway and Blaine pressed his cheek into the pillow to wipe away the tear track before rolling onto his other side. Greeting her with an unpracticed grin, Blaine propped himself up to the headboard, the movement jostling a wide yawn from the depth of his chest.

"Hey, sleeping beauty," Lea teased before setting down the breakfast tray, "brought you some brunch. Though it's looking like this weekend will be a non-stop eating fest. Here, brought you some tea – no surprise there, and some sugar cookies. Don't mind the sprinkles – James and Jordan had a little decorating war. The cookies were both casualties and battlegrounds."

It was so easy to let this dream wash over him, pull him under with its promise of safety, comfort, warmth, and gentle words. A stitch prickled his heart. It was the ease that scared him. Nothing was easy, and nothing was free.

The whole day, Blaine fought the growing sense of belonging. Lea had cautiously conceded that it may be time for B to start walking on his own, the frostbite having completely healed on his feet and leaving only slight scars on his hands. Secretly, Laura suspected that Lea would have stood her ground against the boy walking for a day or two more had the Dom not wanted to see him put on socks and shoes on for the first time in god-knows how long. When Lea tugged the slipper out from under the pile of B's belongings and set them on the floor with a pair of thick, fluffy, fleece socks, Laura caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright and focused on the task of dismantling every habit that brought the boy pain.

Blaine's hands shook as he tugged on the socks, fingertips sinking into the thickness of their fuzz. As he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, letting his feet brush over the tops of his slippers, his heart hammered and his ears echoed with the words "forbidden" and "punishment" and "whore" "whore" "whore". He curled his toes and edged his feet into the shoes, every inch an act of ownership and defiance. As the arches of his feet rested in the warmth of his slippers, Blaine took a deep breath and stood up.

For a moment, his legs shuddered and his knees wobbled, but in a second, Lea caught his elbow and let him rest into her side. With staggered steps, Lea led him through the house, patiently waiting as he placed one foot before the other and constantly narrating their space.

"That's the bathroom. Pretty sure you know what's that for. Bubbles are in the bottom drawer along with the candles. Here's the upstairs common space. No one's figured out how to use it so it's our designated 'limbo' for the things that don't quite belong. And the library. Great space unless you're allergic to dust. Avoid sitting in that far left desk - the heating vent under it has a direct line to hell and it _will_ burn your socks off. Now the living room. That's the TV…pretty much it for this room. No one spends any time in here. And now the kitchen! Where everyone spends all their time. The epicenter of our humble home. Fridge, pantry, cupboards, food. It's all yours. Cups, bowls, plates in the cupboard over there, canned goods and nonperishables over there, fruit we forget to put in the fridge usually winds up in those bowls. If you want anything, or we run out of anything, we use this chalkboard. Jot it down and we'll include it in the next food run. Anything do you like? Something we should start stocking up?"

It took Blaine a moment to recognize the question, still lost in the sound of "our", "yours" and "home". His eyes roved across the countertops laden with food, jars labeled sugar and flour, baskets of fruits and vegetables, greens, reds, and yellows bursting with their vibrancy, bubbling pots boiling on the stove and hissing skillets that sizzled and spat, kettles that hummed, and all around him sound, scent, and welcome. His chest constricted and breath caught in his throat. His legs trembled with the urge to fall to his knees, only the tight grip of his trembling fingers on the countertop keeping him upright.

"B? Sweetheart?"

Refocusing his blurry vision, Blaine met Lea's curious gaze.

"Anything you'd want us to stock up? Anything you like?" She repeated.

Blaine shook his head and answered as truthfully as he could, "I don't know."

* * *

The housemates took Blaine's confession as a challenge. The rest of the weekend was declared a "Tasting", and each person happily rushed to the fridge to check on ingredients for their favorite meals. When Blaine frantically shook his head and begged them to pay no attention, James leaned over the counter and asked "How can you know who you are if you don't know what you like?"

In a matter of minutes, Blaine had a mug of hot cider, a bowl of roast-pumpkin soup, and a plate of buttermilk scones with homemade whipped cream and raspberry puree. The chalkboard was wiped clean (after someone snapped a photo), and a seven-day table quickly grew full of suggested lunches, dinners, and desserts. With choreographed ease, the housemates split up in teams – some dug through the fridge, others cleared countertops of aimless dishes, while others debated the merits of roast beef over rack of lamb. When the counters were cleared, Lea stumbled into the room with a handful of books, binders, and journals. Recipes spilled across the countertop, and Blaine had to wonder how anyone could be so dedicated to food. Food was sustenance, just enough calories to get through the day. His nose scrunched up against the phantom smells of his old bowl, partially filled with dark brown pellets of dense nutrients and topped with grey mush. True, the soups he'd enjoyed in the past few days were heaven in comparison – nearly clear broths with vibrant carrots and opaque onion rings, but he cannot imagine filling a library of books devoted to broth.

Shame rushed into his heart. The weight of his ingratitude settled in his chest, making his lip tremble around a shaky breath. He ducked his face and hunched his shoulders, making himself as small as possible on the stool. Trying to regain composure, he toyed with the spoon to the roast pumpkin soup before plunging it into the bowl. The aroma of the soup filled his consciousness, the spices tickling his nose and plunging him to a world of pure flavor.

Tipping a spoon full of pureed roast-pumpkin onto his tongue, Blaine reconsidered; hopefully, there are whole libraries devoted to this pleasure.

* * *

Monday morning, or Hell Day, was always chaos at Stanley-Broeker&Associates. Ringing phones and urgent messages, stampeding interns and haggard first-years all painted a picture of utter madness.

Damien loved it. Stepping into the office was better than burying your feet in the sand of some exotic retreat – this was pure energy. He crossed the atrium in long, easy the strides, the polished leather of his new Cole Haan oxfords squeaking in its newness. A nod to the guards and a pleasant smile to the greeting girl brought him to the elevator lobby, with its myriad of steel doors each servicing a different portion of the floors. He could vaguely recall the sense of utter ineptitude and impending failure as he struggled to find the right floor on his first day of work. He could recall it, but tried very hard not to – it doesn't pay to remember weakness.

When the bell chimed and a pleasant voice read "Forty-sixth floor. Going down", Damien stepped off the elevator and checked his watch. Its gleaming face read 9:14AM. Perfect.

After flicking his badge against the reader, Damien breached the last layer of glass separating him from the hubbub of the busy law office. Instantly, he was greeted from all sides.

"Morning, Mr. Johnson."

"Morning!"

"Good morning, Mr. Johnson. Have a pleasant weekend?"

"The best!"

"Mr. Johnson, sorry to bother you, but there was a request-"

"I'll look it over as soon as I reach my desk."

"Hey! Hey, Johnson!"

Damien paused long enough to let the short, round form of Mitchel Highthorn catch up to him from the break room. As always, the man was eating, a long drip of cream oozing down his chin as he chewed on a donut.

"Mitch." Damien greeted.

"So, I hear there's talk. You know, around the water cooler." Mitch tried to smirk around his mouthful, but his cheeks were just too stuffed.

"No, I don't know." It was hard not to scowl. Mitch Highthorn was a repulsive creature that justified every lawyer joke ever written. He was a gossiping, lying, ruthless man who filled his life and personality with only the dirties secrets and more destructive rumors. He lived off destroying reputations and enjoyed dancing on the carcasses of his fallen victims. His only talents was listening to whispers, which made the water-cooler his primary zone of operation. Damien hated him. He was Damien's boss.

"Old Stanley may not be up for it much longer, if you know what I mean."

Damien threw his boss a quick glance before straightening to full height and picking up pace. Their height difference put over a foot of space between them and challenged Mitch to keep up.

Trying to wrap up the conversation, Damien responded, "Well, I don't put much stock in rumor. Old Stanley seemed just fine to me when he signed that acquisition last month. I wouldn't start measuring his office for furniture just yet."

"No, no!" Mitch enthuses in a stage whisper. He wheezed before tugging on Damien's coat and coming to a stop. His face was flushed and his eyes gleamed as he motioned his report to lean closer. "I mean, the old man is _not keeping it up_. One of his secretaries just got fired for letting it spill than the old fart has a little stash of Viagra in his desk-side drawer."

Damien clenched his jaw and took a deep breath. And his Monday had started so well…

"So what?"

"So what!" Mitch recoiled from the stupidity of the question. "So what? Johnson, my god. Law is politics, and you ask 'so what'? You may be one of the youngest associates in the history of this company, but _damn_ you have so much to learn."

He huffed and turned back in the direction of the break room, chuckling and mumbling under his breath, "So what…my god, so what. It was Viagra my man! Viagra!"

Grateful for the sight of his boss's retreating back, Damien slowly unclenched his fists. Checking his watch again (9:18AM), Damien turned on his heel and tried clearing his head before reaching his office.

Rounding the corner, he nearly ran into his assistant.

"Mr. Johnson! Oh, good, I thought you'd gotten lost."

"Good morning, Mary."

"It would have been better if you'd have been here three minutes ago. Your coffee's going cold."

"I'm sure it's fine." Damien couldn't help the broad smile that tugged at his cheeks at the sight of his sassy assistant – she really was a sight for sore eyes after Mitch's bullshit.

"Your presentation is on the desk, and the report from Tax is in your inbox. The speech for tomorrow's conference is prepared but needs your final notes. Your lunch meeting was moved to two, and your dinner meeting is now at six-thirty, the car will pick you up at six-oh-seven and I will pick up your dry-cleaning in time for you to change. Oh, and your intern. He wants something."

"Which one?" He caught her just as she was rounding the door.

"The cute one." She yelled over her shoulder.

Damien shrugged off his coat, draping the cashmere, Burberry trench over the armchair and tugging on the cufflinks of his shirt.

Now, his day could finally begin.

* * *

By six o'clock, Damien's office was lightly lit by glow of his computer screens and the lone table lamp he'd flicked on when his eyes grew tried of squinting at depositions. The only sounds in the room for the past hour had been tap-tap-tap of the keyboard of the gentle swoosh of the highlighter as he steadily made his way through his "incoming" stack. So, understandably, he was a little bit startled when the doors to his office burst open with a pop.

"What are you sitting in the dark for?" Mark chastised and flicked on the main switch. The room flooded with artificial light, highlighting the dark night beyond the windows.

Damien blinked to adjust to the sudden brightness and squinted at the corner of his screen for the time. Six-oh-three.

"Goodness! You're still not dressed! What have you been doing for the past two hours?" Outraged, Mary rushed to the closet, where Damien's clothes still hung in their dry-cleaning bags. "What did I tell you! You need to get downstairs in four minutes!"

"Right, right…" Massaging his forehead, Damien tried to chase off the sense of exhaustion that had overtaken him in a matter of seconds. How mandatory was this dinner? Could he have fallen ill, or broken a leg, or been hit by a bus?

"Get up and get dressed. I'm your secretaty, not your mother. Really! A fully grown man…"

Damien stumbled to his feet and tried to breathe out the temptation to blow this whole thing off. It didn't work. Switching to auto-pilot, Damien shrugged off his jacket and took out the cufflinks, reaching for the top buttons of his shirt.

"Mr. Johnson?"

"Hmmm?"

Damien glanced at to the door and let a lazy smile tug at his features.

"Kurt! Good to see you! How've you been? I've been hearing good things – keep up the good work."

It wasn't strictly true – quite the opposite in fact. Kurt was too soft, too gentle, and too principled for a place like this. His peers and managers expected ruthless ambition, while Kurt seemed like someone who actually gave a shit about who he sunk on his way to the top. That's what made Damien like him. Unlike all the shadows who worked in this place, transforming moment to moment into whoever they needed to be, Kurt stood his ground – some called him "inflexible", others complained that he wasn't "opportunistic". But every complaint reassured Damien that he read the boy right; he was someone Damien could trust, and that came along rarely in this field.

"Thank you, I'm glad to hear it." The tone of Kurt's voice suggested that he interpreted the compliment for what it was – a pleasant lie. "But that's not what I needed to discuss. I believe I asked Mary for a moment of your time."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry." Damien mumbled as he fumbled to get the buttons into the newly starched shirt. "Today was just a little…fuck it, are these buttons meant to fit these holes?"

His frustration made no impact on Mary, who simply dead-panned, "You'd like me to dress you? That requires a raise."

Growling, Damien went back to the buttons, starting from the top this time.

"Let's reschedule to Wednesday." He offered before Mary chimed in.

"No. Don't you remember – you have an offsite most of the day, and then that meeting with Roger."

"Right, maybe-"

"Sir, we need to talk now. It can't be delayed."

Damien abandoned the button half-done and glanced at his intern. Kurt's face was set, eyes hard and lips pressed as he were trying his best to concentrate all his courage and let none escape. His brows furrowed as he took in Kurt's battle-stance – what the hell? Kurt looked…., Damien searched for the right word, but the only one on his mind was "violent." Every muscle of Kurt's body was tense, whether in preparation for attack or defense, Damien couldn't quite tell.

"And it can't wait?"

"No, sir. It can't."

"Well that's just too bad!" Mary exclaimed, "You" – pocking Damien in his arm, "were supposed to be on your way to DeLaurenti's two minutes ago. So, unless you plan on taking your intern with you…"

Kurt's voice broke though Mary's babble, "It's about the sub. The one you asked me to find on Friday."

Damien's hands fell to his side.

"Mary, cancel the dinner."

"What! No-what? Damien, this is-"

"Mary, please. Just do it. And close the door on your way out."

Mary stared at her boss in utter confusion until she gather her wits and, spluttering, went out the door. Silence hung in the office as the two men regarded each other across the space. A deep sense of foreboding settled in Damien's chest, making him feel like the distance was the only thing keeping him safe.

Slowly, he made his way to his desk, careful to avoid turning his back. He settled into his chair and put his hands flat on the desk.

"Yes?"

"I found him."

* * *

Reviews? Maybe? Please? It would be nice :)


	9. Chapter 9

Hello everyone! Thank you for your generous reviews and comments. I loved hearing what you thought of the story so far, and I am hoping this chapter doesn't disappoint. PLEASE, please take the time to review it - this chapter is rather central to the fic, and your feedback will be enormously helpful in guiding the next update. Without a beta, I truly rely on readers to gauge who well I succeeded in communicating my point. Help make this story better!

Here it is...

* * *

"You-you found him?" Damien blinked owlishly as he processed the words. "What do you mean you ifound/i him? It's Monday!"

"Yes, sir."

"But…how do you know it's him? On Friday, I give you one letter of a name and a birthmark, and on Monday you …are you sure it's him?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sure."

Kurt took two measured steps and seemed to consider sitting into the chair across Damien's desk, but thought better of it. Instead, he rested his fisted hands on the back of the chair and remained on his feet. His hands shook ever so slightly.

"Sir…" his voice rang, "how are you related to the Andersons?"

"The Andersons? Care to be more specific?"

"Senator Charles Anderson, and his wife, Mary-Ann Anderson."

Damien leaned back in his chair, appraising his intern. One wrong word, and the thin ice he was walking would crack.

"Why do you ask?"

Instead of responding, Kurt looked to the side, plunging the room back into silence. When his gaze snapped back to his boss, whatever caution or fear had been in his eyes was replaced with simmering fury.

"What's your sister's name?"

"My sister?"

"Yes! Goddamn it, your sister!" Exploding, Kurt shoved at the armchair between him and his target, bracing his hands on the desk to cut the distance between them. "You said this sub was your cousin, so I'm asking! What is your sister's name!"

"My god, Kurt! What's the matter!"

"Tell me!"

"Calm down!"

"No! Cause either you're a damn good liar or you are a fucking Trader. So which is it?"

That word, that hideous word, sucked the air out of the room. Shock still, Damien waited for the ringing in his ears to subside, for the heat in his chest to cool. For the first time since Kurt entered the room, Damien saw the terror in the boy's eyes. What he mistook for violence was desperation – a desperation to hold on, to believe, in a vision of the world that was quickly turning black.

Perhaps it was foolish, and certainly short-sighted, to ask Kurt to look into Lea's runaway. But at the time, all he could hear was the tremor of her voice as she described the injuries on the young sub's body, the way her voice grew dim and distant as she lost herself in questions of how someone could so completely destroy a life. He knew what scared her – not the injuries, the bruises, the concussions. It was the undeniable fact that every person who came in contact with the sub chose to destroy him. Intentionally, deliberately, tore him apart. There is no sight more terrifying than the vision of man's capacity for cruelty.

And now, Kurt had seen it too. Whatever path his research took him brought him here, shaken and scared, distrusting and desperate for some shred of reassurance.

"I have no sister." Damien relaxed his features and slowly lowered himself into his chair. He watched Kurt's Adam's apple bop as the boy fought for composure. "I am in no way related to any Anderson, particularly not the Senator or his wife. And I am sorry I lied to you."

Cautiously, Kurt moved toward the chair he'd brushed aside just moments earlier and slowly turned it toward his boss. He sank onto its very edge and gave a brief nod for Damien to continue.

"I needed you to find this sub, but I was sure it would take longer than a weekend. By then, you'd have forgotten the context of this favor, or I would have come up with a far better lie."

"How do you know him?" Kurt croaked.

"I don't. But a friend of mine does. She called me on Friday evening, asking for my help. She'd taken in a stray – a runaway sub who teetered on death's door. His body wore all the signs of abuse, malnourished, beaten. He was hypothermic when they found him, frostbite, pneumonia, the works. When he woke up, it was obvious the abuse ran deeper. The kid had no safeword. Had never even heard of such a thing. So she called me. It's impossible to register a Claim without a safeword. And yet, he had a Claiming mark on his right arm. She asked me to find him. But, even with access to the Registration logs, I cannot just walk up and start pulling records. You, on the other hand, have cause – your research on populations would give you unquestioned access to all the records you could need. So I asked you."

"Why lie?" the note of distrust hung heavy in the air as Kurt asked his question. "Why make up a connection that doesn't exist? Couldn't it have sent me down a blind-alley?"

"It could've…if I had a cousin whose name starts with a B and who has a birthmark over his shoulder. But I don't, and I didn't anticipate you giving up so easily. Plus, you forget - taking in runaways is a federal offense. The fewer people know, the lower the risk of the police knocking on their doors. I thought it would be better this way."

Damien watched Kurt struggle to believe him. He couldn't blame the kid – how do you trust while riding the coattails of a lie? So he sat back, hands lightly crossed over his kneecap, and waited.

"How is he?"

"The boy?" Kurt nodded. "Recovering, I believe. The people he's with-" Damien reconsidered. Vague intimations won't earn Kurt's trust, and the kid deserved better than empty insinuations. "He's in a house on Beacon Hill. It's shared among five people, two Doms, two switches, and a sub. Two subs, now. They're all good people. I know they will do all they can to help this boy."

Another nod and with a breath, the strings holding Kurt taunt snapped, releasing the tense line of his spine and shoulders. He melted into the chair, deflated and scrubbed raw. It felt as if he'd cried for hours, drained of the capacity to feel anything but the steady buzz of weariness. After a long weekend poring over documents and breathing in the dust of untouched records, after putting together the pieces of a puzzle that tugged at every instinct to protect, and after spending all his Monday gathering courage for this confrontation, Kurt wanted a nap. He wanted the cool touch of his hypoallergenic pillow and the soothing scent of his sandalwood candle.

"His name is Blaine Anderson." Kurt picked a spot on the thick Persian rug and started talking. "He was the youngest son to Charles and Mary-Ann Anderson, born 1995, twelve years after the birth of their first son, Cooper. His medical records start in Colton Hospital – it's where I checked for the birthmark; Blaine has one on his right shoulder blade, between his neck and collarbone. It seems like he was raised by nannies back at whatever mansion the Andersons owned at that point, but Blaine started preschool at the Saint Gregory's School for Boys. At least he was enrolled. Before starting school, he was tested along with everyone else. His Designation form was in the records, but his Assignment – it's blotted out. Like someone pipetted a drop of acid right over the word. I'm guessing- well, I think we both know what it said."

Kurt raised his head for the first time. His eyes were empty when they met Damien's gaze.

"Why are you so sure it's him?"

"Because of what happened next. Blaine died. Some freaky reaction to the flu. There's an official report, signed by the Anderson family doctor; apparently he was the only person to see the boy before he passed. No hospital visits, no testing. There was a funeral – it was covered by the local news. And then a couple months later, some aid in the coroner's office spoke to a journalist, said that Blaine's blood didn't show signs of an infection. Said the family insisted on keeping the body at the house, refused access. Of course, the family lawyer quickly shut her up – accused her of trying to get attention by blaming the death of their beloved child on the grieving family. The woman, a Sandy Miller, lost her job, and as the official story does, started drinking, got into debt, and overdosed one night on painkillers."

The leather of Damien's chair crackled as he leaned back. His hands came up to massage his forehead, a habit acquired from years of severe headaches, before he let out a long breath.

"Are you telling me," he addressed Kurt, "that the Senator and his wife killed their youngest son, paid off a doctor to fabricate a false cause of death, put on an act for the whole community, and later killed someone for putting a crack in their story? All because, what? He was a sub?"

"No. I think they sold him." Every word put more conviction in Kurt's voice. When the story was scattered along several boxes worth of dusty documents, Kurt believed it, but he didn't have the utter conviction he had now. Something had happened in that family and Kurt knew the current chapter of this story was now recovering in a house on Beacon Hill. "Remember that family lawyer I mentioned? Curtis Fisher. Right around the time of the funeral, he came into some money. The only reason it's on record was a random audit the IRS ran a couple of years later – it uncovered $127,600 of unaccounted income. With an apology and a shrug, he paid the taxes on this sum, but since a couple of years had passed, no one insisted on an explanation and everybody went home happy. I think the Andersons gave their son to him to sell off to the highest bidder. Probably let him keep the money as an annual bonus."

"How old was he?"

"Blaine?" Kurt looked out at the lit city, wondering how it could glow so bright in so much darkness. "Blaine Anderson died when he was six years old. Whoever owned him had him for twelve years."

* * *

The clocks had just brushed past seven-thirty when the two men exit the Stanley-Broeker building. Rush hours had long passed, leaving the business district sparsely populated with empty cabs and the occasional straggler. Damien pulled up the collar of his coat and tightened the scarf about his neck in an empty gesture; the cold seeping into his bones had nothing to do with the weather. With a quick glance at his companion, Damien tightened his hold on the briefcase and turned in the direction of the nearest bar. Kurt looked exhausted. Clearly, the kid spent the past three days holed up in some basement, digging through archives and drowning in coffee. Damien knew this exhaustion well; the one where you've pushed your body past the point of endurance, where your biological clock gives up and sends out a final SOS. If he went home now, Kurt would spend the night staring at the edge of his pillow and yelling at his mind to shut off.

"Let's get a drink."

Kurt nodded, his unfocused eyes directed at the pavement as he let his legs carry him a step or two behind his boss. Five minutes on foot took them the edge of the business district, into an underground pub where the risks of running into a coworker were mitigated by the cheap booze and the sticky tables. Damien slid into a booth in the far corner of the room before ordering two whiskeys from a middle-aged waitress whose breasts threatened to spill from her top.

After a moment of watching Kurt sway in his seat, Damien broke the silence, "You know, this is actually good news."

With a struggle, Kurt drew his eyes up and frowned. "What part of any of this is good news?"

"He was sold," Damien responded, starting to play with the salt shaker, "which means he wasn't Claimed. Can't be a runaway if you're not Claimed."

"But if he has a Claiming pin…"

"Those can be removed." Damien dismissed the concern with a brush of his hand. "The trick 'll be registering him. If he's to have his life back…oh, thank you." He nodded to the waitress as she set two glasses on the table. Even from a distance, he could smell the sharp bite of cheap alcohol and poorly washed dishes.

"As I was saying," he continued, placing one of the uncomfortably warm glasses by Kurt's right hand, "he'll need new records. And we'll need to somehow forge 'em, file 'em, and even then…someone knows him. Whoever owned him – he knows what Blaine looks like. Knows where he came from. And we can't ignore the possibility that his parents, or that lawyer, also know. Fuck."

He took a long drink of his whiskey, grateful for the fire that scalded his throat.

"I'm sorry." Kurt whispered before taking a small sip of his drink. "I'm sorry I thought-"

"No need. You've done nothing wrong."

"It's just that…after reading…it's like he came alive. The boy, who he was, what he must have felt. The terror of losing his home, his shit family. Getting thrown into the hands of a Buyer. And all those years! What must have happened to him! And then- you said. You said he was your cousin. And I thought...you must have known. You must be complicit. I just…"

"You wanted to protect him." Damien gentled. "There's nothing wrong with that. I lied to you. You had every reason to distrust me."

As Kurt sipped at his drink, his eyes grew heavier and it took more and more effort to open them with each blink. Damien sat back and let the chatter of a half empty bar, with its cheering patrons, its clinking glasses, and its clattering chairs wash through him and dance with the awoken domination in his chest. He let it calm him, carried on the waves of his instincts.

"What now?"

Damien blinked open his eyes. "Now, you go home. Tomorrow you're talking a day off. So am I, for that matter. I want you to sleep it off, rest, recover – you've done incredible work, and there's so much left to be done. Now I need to make some calls, figure out where we can go from here. Plus, we need to fill in the blanks. Blaine Anderson's story has too many potholes, and we know some were dug up on purpose. It's time to fill them in – we're not bringing the kid back to life just to put it in danger. And then, when we have all the pieces, I think it'll be time to visit some friends on Beacon Hill."

* * *

Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?


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